


Space Between

by Tennyo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (mostly) Canon Compliant, Artistic liberties taken with historical and religious events, Canon Dialogue, Chapter Five TW in Notes, Dowling Era, Fused book and show canon, Gen, History Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Other, Pining, Scenes from the script book, World Wars, foot washing, ineffable husbands, the m25
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley's journeys on Earth through time(My self-indulgent fill-in fic)





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly in-canon for both the book and the TV series, although I'm leaning more heavily on the TV series since it fills in so much more of their history. I do merge book canon where I'm able.  
> I'm currently writing 1941, and I keep finding new bits from Neil, or the scriptbook, so I'm posting over time so I don't keep going back and editing parts.  
> NOTE: Most of my history comes from Wikipedia or bits I've googled. And I really didn't want to get too bogged down with too much history, so I'm sorry if I don't cover a poinht in history you might have wanted to see.
> 
> Expect a more Ace reading, even though they are (obviously) in love.
> 
> Eventually I might go back and do hyperlinks for footnotes, but I've tried to make them easier to find by posting them in sections.
> 
> I will update tags as I post, but let me know if I forget something!  
> (July 14, 2019)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BCE preface

Babe, there's something lonesome about you  
Something so wholesome about you  
Get closer to me

_From Eden - Hozier_

* * *

In the Beginning, the angel Aziraphale guarded Eden’s Eastern Gate. In his hand he held a flaming sword, although he didn’t see much use in it at the time. In fact, it did very little good in keeping out of the Garden the Serpent that tempted Eve into biting into an apple from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The least he could do was give the thing to Adam to help protect the soon-to-be-parents from the dangers of the lands past the Garden’s walls.

Afterward, the Serpent had seemed incredibly kind, which confused Aziraphale. While they were mortal enemies, Crawly didn’t seem so evil after all. When it began to rain for the first time, the demon sidled closer, and Aziraphale sheltered him under a wing. It was perfectly pleasant.

Time passed, and humanity flourished, even if there was a problem with Adam and Eve’s first children. At times Aziraphale would see the demon Crawly at a distance, but he refrained from calling out. They were supposed to be enemies, after all. When he saw what demons were doing with humans, he was aghast. Apparently, so was God.

* * *

Crawly received many accolades for his work in the Garden. One thing he didn’t mention about his mission was how the angel Aziraphale had sheltered him from the first storm. No, that moment atop the wall under the angel’s wings was just between the two of them. 

The years that followed were strange and wondrous, as humankind grew and developed. One day, Crawly noticed a great surge of forces from Below. These Fallen came to Earth, and had their way with the humans. The children of these pairings were quite fearful,1 and Crowley was glad he’d never been so inclined in the ways his brethren had chosen. 

A thousand years after the expulsion from the Garden, Crawly heard of a man who was building an enormous boat. As he grew nearer the site, he’d heard tales of the man’s insanity, that he was drawing as many animals as possible to it, that it was being laden with foods, and that it was all for one family. 

Well, that seemed rather excessive. Especially since the boat wasn’t built near a river or anything. But when he arrived where people were gathered to gawp and jeer, Crawly recognized a familiar face. 

1: Some religious sites say the Nephilim were the offspring of (fallen angels) demons and humans.

* * *

Aziraphale wasn’t happy with the current course of things. Upon discovering the news that he was tasked to deliver personally to Noah, he was quite distressed, and had taken to wringing his hands and fretting. To be honest, he still felt a little responsible for the plight of humans, after the whole flaming sword business. But he was not allowed to interfere, and could only help ensure that Noah finished his Ark.

“Well, hello Aziraphale!” came a familiar voice from his left. 

There stood Crawly in a dark tunic, and Aziraphale’s anxiety spiked. Was he here to foil another one of God’s plans? Best to remain amicable, at least. Of course, the first thing the demon mentioned was that blessed sword. Thankfully, it had never been mentioned by the Almighty since then.

When Crawly asked about the ark, at least Aziraphale could answer that. The demon seemed genuinely surprised at God’s plan, so Aziraphale relaxed a fraction. It was heartening to see Crawly’s dismay at wanting to see all of (local) humanity wiped out. Aziraphale was happy to inform that other areas of the world were to remain unharmed. 

Crawly’s protests upon killing children had Aziraphale holding back either a hysterical scream, or tears, he couldn’t tell which at this point. But he wasn’t allowed to even think about speaking against God’s plan. As their conversation continued, Crawly’s attitude turned more sarcastic, which made it easier for Aziraphale to regain his composure. Regardless of how sympathetic he seemed, Crawly was a demon, and Aziraphale had a responsibility to thwart his wiles. 

But then the rain started, and he did not use his wings to shelter anyone, like he had before. 

It was time.

* * *

Crawly had been aghast at God’s cruelty,2 and sought shelter in one of the other parts of the world unaffected by the flood until it was over. He may or may not have helped kick start a snake-based religion or two, as a way of blowing a big old raspberry at the creator who had punished him for simply asking questions. 

But being worshipped as a deity got boring, so he nipped back across the ocean to check on how things had gone for Noah’s offspring by now. What he saw upon his arrival was, well… Maybe God should have waited before flooding the earth. And maybe Crawly should have stayed away a while longer. 

He heard of Babel, their tower and its destruction, which caused everyone to speak different languages.3 It did give him the idea of changing his name, especially since he was no longer in serpent form.

As he learned more languages, Crawly heard of cities wiped out with holy fire, and the deeds that had caused it. He tried to imagine Aziraphale, soft angel, being forced to raze cities to the ground. He couldn’t. Arriving near Egypt in time to witness the end of the plagues, he thought that God was a right bastard. And so, Crawly made his way to what looked like slightly adjacent friendlier territory, and changed his name to Crowley.

He didn’t meet Aziraphale again until he was called to bear witness to another series of events in history. When told what was to happen, Crowley wondered why anyone bothered, since God was so fond of punishing the humans. But he did as was told, and watched.

Having found a young man on some sort of vision quest with no food or water, he offered to miracle up some. But the lad was steadfast, so Crowley made it a bit of a game, trying to see just how bonkers this Jesus fellow really was. He even showed the lad all the kingdoms of the world, for all the good it did.4 Crowley left him alone then, until the human’s death, where he once again met up with Aziraphale.

2: But not surprised.

3: This annoyed Crawly, having to learn so many different tongues.

4: The Christian Bible over dramatized these events, and mis-credited them to boot. But they made Crowley look good to his superiors.


	2. When in Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rome, expanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be posted during SDCC but that obviously didn't happen. If I wasn't out doing things I was busy sleeping.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do

_Like Real People - Hozier_

* * *

Aziraphale had grown despondent over the past few millennia, for it seemed the Adversary worked hard to make men wicked. He stayed faithful to his cause and did as instructed, but every time another city was razed due to wickedness, it was as if a piece inside of him grew numb. He was, after all, just a tool of God, and was tasked to carry out instructions, no matter how unsavory.

Outside of the area that God had punished, other religions sprang up, and Aziraphale witnessed many. Actually, he may have accidentally become caught up in the Greek mythology, and caused a new belief in a winged god. It wasn’t his fault the Greeks didn’t believe in one God! He did, however, feel guilty leaving the incident out of his reports. Thankfully, the god-myth he might have started, sounded and looked nothing like him.5 Angels may have been made to love, but Aziraphale wanted no part in the way he was portrayed to show it. 

Aziraphale was assigned to other tasks during the life of Jesus, but bore witness to his last days. Crawly showed back up, declaring a new name, and dared accuse Aziraphale of responsibility for the man’s demise. Crawly, err, Crowley’s presence almost made the whole event bearable. As he was supposed to stick around for the next few days and perform some miracles, he retired after the whole mess, to break bread and share wine with the one being who might understand his troubles. Even so, Aziraphale was loath to divulge too much, or become too comfortable because after all, he was entertaining a demon. He would have to remain ever vigilant. 

Once his duties were complete, Aziraphale was told that angels were to take different roles with humans, that visible miracles and flashing of wings were to become less obvious. Considering this permission for a break, he took some time to wander among the people of Rome, in hopes of refreshing his spirits. Only eight years later, while attempting to learn a board game, he heard a familiar voice. Seeing as other angels rarely spent time on Earth more than absolutely necessary, Aziraphale immediately went to greet the demon. Just for a spot of company, you see.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Crowley had cut his hair to keep up with the latest fashion, but it did suit him.

5: This comes up later, be patient.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t looking forward to spending any more time in Rome than necessary. He had stopped there for a quick temptation, and found the emperor Caligula without need of such temptation, so he would be on his way after a quick drink. Then he’d be off to somewhere less… depraved, maybe.6

Needless to say, he was a tad irritated to hear the voice of a certain angel behind him. Why couldn’t he have a drink in peace while he tried to drown out what he’d just witnessed? The chap seemed friendly enough, but his blind faith was annoying. But then, the bumbling fool said something that amused him. The thought of an angel, tempting _him_ , to oysters? Oh, that was good. 

Needless to say, Crowley let the angel treat him to a wonderful restaurant whose oysters were indeed very good. And the wine was strong. Several jugs later, they were both quite sloshed, and they wandered out into the streets, arm in arm. Aziraphale had been telling him a hilarious story about how he’d gotten mistaken for a love god. 

“Not Eros, mind you, but one of his unfortunate brothers."7

Crowley sniggered at the thought, and led Aziraphale to a tavern for more wine. He could wait to head back down Below if it meant hearing more stories like this.

After the angel regaled him with an embarrassing tale of stopping by a lovely secluded pond to stretch his wings, only to be discovered by a couple of young lovers also planning to use the secluded spot, Crowley had finished nearly an entire jug of wine himself, while Aziraphale was about halfway through another. Something about the angel kept drawing him in, wanting to be near. 

“I am nev’r releasing m’wings ousside Heaven ever again!” decried the angel, as he sloshed the wine in his mug. 

Crowley became overwhelmed at the thought of seeing Aziraphale’s wings. Last time had been over four thousand years ago, in the Garden. And while they had been slightly unkempt, they were lovely. 

“I don’t know, angel, ‘m sure there’re a few… ex- sssclussive bath houssses in Rome where you c’n let ‘em out for a good grooming.” His fingers twitched at the thought. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Nnnn. Not worth it.”

“Pity.” Crowley gulped another mouthful of wine. It was growing late, and he wasn’t ready for it to end. Leaning against the angel, he realized something. 

“I don’t have a room for the night. D’you know where I can stay?”

Not thinking properly, Aziraphale replied, “I’ve a small flat not far fr- _hic_ from here.”

Crowley actually expected it to be more difficult than that. The angel was far too trusting. “You don’t mind, sharr-sharing?”

Turning the last jug upside down with the rest of the wine into his mug, Aziraphale said, “Not like I sleep innit.”

If Crowley weren’t so inebriated, he might have argued the merits of sleep. But he was warm, and with good company, and was being offered a place to rest for the night, with the angel. How could he refuse? Drinks finished, and some globula8 drizzled with honey on a stick for the road, Crowley and Aziraphale leaned heavily on each other as the drunken angel tried to navigate them both back to his flat.

In a back alley, Crowley noticed the angel had honey smeared on his chin. “Just a mo’,” He held Aziraphale’s face with one hand, and licked the honey right off. So sweet, and there was more on the angel’s lips, so he obliged himself to an indulgent kiss. 

Mind, Crowley was usually not one to engage with humans this way, and other demons never. But Aziraphale was irresistible and pliant, and salty-sweet. How often would he get the chance to kiss an angel? 

With a small sound, the angel’s lips parted, and Crowley delved his tongue inside, wanting more. He’d expected a repulsion, some kind of ethereal rejection, or to be burned. But all he found was warmth. Warmth, and a suffusing joy.

At some point he’d pushed Aziraphale against a wall, and their bodies were flush, touching from knee to chest. One hand was on the angel’s neck tickling the curls at his nape, the other at his hip. Just as he was thinking they should maybe continue this in the angel’s flat so they wouldn’t have to keep standing, he was pushed away. 

The angel stared at him with wide, blue eyes, his lips still parted and glistening wet, rosy from kissing, and practically begging for more. But before Crowley could step back in, the angel shakily cried out, “No!” 

Crowley blinked, the fog in his head lifting a bit. “Why?”

The angel scrunched his face up and grunted, miracling himself sober. “I know what you’re trying to do, you fiend! You shan’t tempt me!”

What? “Whuh?” Crowley made the effort to sober himself up as well, lamenting the easy, liquid buzz as it faded and left him with the stale aftertaste of wine. And the harsh reality that Aziraphale, who he’d gotten along with all evening, was now backing away from him down the alley. “I don’t…”

“No!” The angel’s voice was high pitched, and obviously showing distress. “Stay back, or I will smite you for attempting to make me Fall!”

Fall? But they were just… Oh. Crowley stood dumbfounded, and watched the angel disappear around a corner. Frustrated, sober, and suddenly much colder than he was moments ago, Crowley closed his eyes, sighed, and decided to just go back Below to turn in his report. If he never saw the angel again, it would be too soon. Best to get as far away from Rome as possible.

6: Caligula was known for his… rather exotic sexual tastes, and cruelty, and was in fact quite mad.

7: Pothos, of the Erotes, was considered one of the patrons of homosexual love between males, and passionate longing. Make of that what you will.

8: Fried. Cheese. Curds. Not always with honey. Was it ever served on a stick? IDK, but it should have been.

* * *

Aziraphale made it back to his flat, and pressed himself to the rough wooden door, breathing heavily, shaking with fear and indignation. Did the demon follow him? Does he need to prepare for some sort of battle now, or a sneak attack? His wild heart slowed down, and he raised his hand to his lips. Just… what?

Having been participant to kisses before, he knew they could be a greeting, benediction, praise, and of course he'd seen affectionate, passionate kissing, but had never experienced it personally. It had taken him by surprise. At first, it had been a strange lick, the demon going at a sticky patch of honey. He'd thought it just some demon quirk, until the tongue had ended up inside his mouth. And, oh, it was so… surprisingly pleasant. 

He had always expected the touch of a demon, especially one so intimate, to burn. And yes, there was warmth, but in a way that had Aziraphale wanting more. He dreaded to think what would have happened if they'd continued. 

Untrustworthy serpent. Lured him with excessive drink and conversation, got him to lower his guard. Never again! 

Aziraphale looked around his small flat and the meager possessions he’d acquired over time, mostly some rare scrolls. Perhaps it was safer to leave Rome altogether. Packing quickly, he was ready by dawn. One thought as he left was, if he never saw the demon again, it would be too soon.

Never staying in one place too long, Aziraphale kept up his guard for centuries, striving for piety. The Roman empire expanded, split and partially collapsed, the Han dynasty ended, India began its golden age, Mesoamerican civilizations grew, and in the British Isles, as Roman forces receded, native tribes took back over, and barbarians attacked.9

One king rose in Britain, whom Aziraphale was tasked with assisting in his endeavors to create a peaceful kingdom. Thus, in the early 6th century, the angel travelled to the British Isles to serve King Arthur. As a knight, he strove to maintain peace, and helped fight against evil.

This was when he unbelievably stumbled upon the demon Crowley once again.

9: Most of Author’s history comes from Wikipedia. Don’t judge Author for glossing over Things I Don’t Want to, or Can't, Write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect any more kissing to happen again for quite some time, people. Like nearly two thousand more years.


	3. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Wessex through the Arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more TV and Book merging, since we saw Wessex in the show and in the book their Arrangement started in 1020.  
> It works, because Aziraphale rejected the idea at first!  
> Just five hundred more years of wearing him down.

And I've walked down life's lonely highways  
Hand in hand with myself  
And I realized how many paths have crossed between us

 _I Found a Reason - The Velvet Underground_

* * *

Though Crowley left the city of Rome after his encounter with the angel, he ended up lingering in the area for a few decades. He’d evacuated with Herculaneum and watched from Misenum as Vesuvius buried those left behind in its surrounding cities. He didn't deserve the commendation he received for the resulting human suffering, and it sickened him. After that, he spent a good amount of time either drunk or asleep. 

Factions rose and fell, there was always a battle somewhere over something, and Crowley kept himself busy, placing himself in areas where he wouldn't have to do much, and taking the credit. And so the centuries passed. 

It wasn't often that Below gave him official orders, so he grumbled at his assignment to foment dissent and discord among a damp, northerly cluster of islands that had been abandoned by the crumbling Roman empire. Upon arrival, he had not been surprised to discover a certain angel among what was called the "Knights of the Table Round."10

He'd run into a spot of luck at discovering a very dead chap in black armor, who had broken his neck after falling off his horse. His valet was still around and quite happy to acquire a new master, with Crowley assuming the role of the Black Knight. With his new persona, the demon sent out servants to cause trouble and spin tales of dastardly deeds which had been supposedly performed of the previous black knight. It left Crowley with not much to do except try to stay warm while traipsing about foggy, sodden wilderness.

A knight come to challenge him approached, and a servant entered his tent, announcing the arrival. As he lumbered through the damp towards the voice, servants carrying weapons at his flanks, he could have sworn he recognized it. But he couldn’t see much through his visor in thick fog, so he kept going, giving his usual speech about this new adversary having found their death.

But of course the effect was ruined when the person in front of him used his _old_ name, “Is that you under there, Crawly?” 

He knew he would run into Aziraphale eventually, and here he was. Lifting his visor, Crowley corrected him, and looked over the glistening, spotless armor, and thick, most likely warm furred cape.11 Having dropped all pretense with the angel asking what he was playing at, Crowley called his men off, knowing the angel was no real danger to them, in spite of the situation. 

Their short conversation did little to relieve either of them from their duties or the discomfort of heavy metal armor, but it did sow a seed of an idea. One that Crowley planned on carefully tending until it sprouted into a full-fledged deal. It was too bad that Aziraphale turned away when he did, because in spite of how they’d left each other in Rome almost 500 years ago, he had missed the company of a relatively friendly face, of someone who understood his place in the world. But at least he didn’t have to fight now; his codpiece was beginning to chafe.

10: Silly name, really. And a ridiculous shape for a table when rectangle would work just as well, if not better.

11: He’d have to get himself one of those. 

* * *

Aziraphale could not believe what Crowley had actually suggested. Work _with_ each other? Falsify reports? It was outright blasphemy. He was right to have wanted to stay away from that silly demon’s influences. Which was unfortunate. Aziraphale wanted company. While humans were nice, they didn’t understand what it was like to live for millennia; to watch those you’d grown fond of perish within such a short time span hurt. 

Over the next few centuries, he would see Crowley reappear at times when it would be suspiciously convenient to take up his suggestion of non-interference. Always something seemingly inconsequential, or easily negated by the other’s influence. Aziraphale was tempted, but remained steadfast. 

Christianity became quite a force, with a centralized Catholic Church leading the charge. Another religion emerged, similar to Christianity, and began taking over many of the areas the angel remembered during early times, centralizing about what humans called the Holy Land.

Humans continued doing what humans do, creating ways to convince each other a certain number of themselves were better than the rest. Close to the end of the millennia, while feudalism raged, Aziraphale was able to help with a movement called Pax Dei. He really despaired at having to watch humanity destroy itself, and he hoped the concept of provoking peace through God would catch on. The world could use some proper civility, he thought. 

It was during the year 1020 that Aziraphale finally capitulated to Crowley’s ideas, and submitted a report as a test. Having taken credit for inspiring a sort of encyclopedia of science and philosophy, he’d received a ‘Good Job!’ notice in response, and that was all.

Thoroughly bewildered, Aziraphale had met Crowley for dinner and drinks at an inn some place in the Southern Byzantine Empire. They were sampling a local beer, and tasting the local fare. “I don’t understand,” said the angel, taking a drink. “How could they have just taken me at my word?”

“I told you, angel, they have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth.” Crowley took a deep drink of his beer and murmured about how it wasn’t comparable to wine.

“Well, I can understand a certain level of trust among er, _angelic_ ranks, but what about, you know.” Aziraphale gestured at their feet. 

“I’ve already been doing it for centuries, angel. Nobody cares.” 

Aziraphale threw down a crust of bread. “Oh, fine. But we both must agree, and we cannot do it with any sort of regular frequency. It should be only on rare occasions, when we’ve both been assigned tasks in the same area, for non-interference purposes. They might catch on otherwise.”

“Alright.” Crowley slung an arm over the back of his chair, stretched out his legs, and looked sideways at his companion. “Don’t forget, one must do the job of both properly.”

“Yes, yes. We will do what we must.” 

The demon wore a strange, small smile. It wasn’t quite sly, like a smirk, but looked, dare he say, fond? The angel dismissed the idea. “So that’s it, then?” Aziraphale asked, placing his hands in his lap.

“Almost, you’re forgetting one thing.” Crowley tilted his head, his smile widening just a fraction. 

“And what is that?”

“We must seal the deal.” There was that sly smile.

“Surely you don’t expect me to sign some kind of paper?” Aziraphale was affronted that the demon would suggest something as traceable as a written contract.

“Oh no, nothing that formal.” Crowley leaned forward in his chair then. “We can call it an agreement or arrangement, but I will require some form of proof of concordance.” At that, he pouted his lips slightly.

Was he suggesting… Well. The thought of kissing brought back memories of their time in Rome, and it made Aziraphale blush. “As long as you control yourself. This is only meant to confirm the arrangement.”

Crowley’s smile grew. “A business transaction.”

“Exactly.”

After an uncomfortable silence where the demon seemed to gloat, Aziraphale capitulated. “Fine. But close your eyes and hold still. No funny business.”

Behind his current pair of dark shades, Crowley closed his eyes. He looked almost serene, with his face tilted to facilitate lip contact. Aziraphale glanced around, and nobody was watching. Really, people did this all the time, so he just needed to get on with it then. He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and placed the briefest of kisses to the demon’s waiting lips. There, the agreement was sealed. Before Crowley reopened his eyes, Aziraphale licked his lips, and tasted beer. 

Inhaling, Crowley opened his eyes, and grinned. “And the agreement has been… err, agreed upon. Cheers, angel.” He grabbed his mug of ale and held it out for a toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I lied there was one more kiss, but is it really?


	4. Centuries Pass Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments from the eleventh through the eighteenth centuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends, enjoy another installment of my self-indulgent yet (mostly) canon-compliant fic.
> 
> Sometimes it's harder choosing lyrics to go with the chapter than it is to write this thing. LOL

There's a hole in my soul  
I can't fill it, I can't fill it  
There's a hole in my soul  
Can you fill it? Can you fill it?

_Flaws - Bastille_

* * *

The end of the eleventh century through the thirteenth saw the advent of numerous crusades, most with the intent of re-taking what the humans saw as the Holy Land. Crowley met up with Aziraphale near the start of the first one, and they discovered both sides were claiming credit for the whole affair. Such co-incidences* stopped surprising Crowley, as he was pretty much done with the politics of Heaven and Hell, merely doing his job to avoid trouble. 

Well, except when he wanted to cause trouble. But that was entertainment disguised as work.

In spite of all the human in-fighting that continued, in increasingly larger scale, the buggers kept getting more innovative with science and technology, and literacy was spreading. He quite liked windmills, as they allowed people more free time and energy to get into trouble. Clocks he was less fond of, as they let you know just how fast or slow time passed. Calendars were bad enough, especially for creatures who had been there at the literal beginning of time.12

And then there was the fourteenth century. Looking back on it, if Crowley had known how bad it would have been, he would have chosen to sleep through it. Sure, he got more commendations for things that honestly had nothing to do with him, like witch trials, and some of the more outrageous cures for the Black Plague.13

One of the few things that gave him a giggle during that century was Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Crowley had gifted Aziraphale first editions of the entire trilogy. That man’s ideas of Hell were particularly amusing, albeit wrong. Aziraphale’s reaction to the oeuvre was particularly entertaining.

The end of the Middle Ages brought Gutenberg’s printing press, which delighted the angel to no end. 

Through it all, Crowley and Aziraphale’s friendship deepened. He considered the feeling that suffused through him in the angel’s presence… fondness. Was it possible for a demon to become purified if one spent enough time in the presence of an angel? He knew he could never return to Heaven, that’s not how it worked. Other than having to be a subject of Hell, was this the punishment for Falling? To constantly long for the warmth of an angel’s grace? 

*a co-incidence is not to be confused with a coincidence. The causal connection is that both sides thought it was a good idea.

12: And honestly the whole affair of marking time four thousand years after Creation was ridiculous, forcing people to count backwards when referring to anything before their arbitrary starting point.

13: Crowley had to save Aziraphale more than once during this time to avoid the angel being discorporated via witch-burning.

* * *

Oh how wondrous and inventive these humans had become. For so long, Aziraphale had dealt with hand-illustrated, and very rare tomes. But with the clever invention of the printing press, books became much more common. Aziraphale found himself needing more space for his ever growing collection. Once in a while he would ponder whether it was some form of sin, but there was so much knowledge and history to be preserved! 

Finally, the concept of the earth going around the sun instead of the other way started to catch on. Aziraphale thought it a shame that Aristarchus's model didn't take nearly two millennia before, but even so, the Catholics were quite cross when it did begin to popularize. 

The end of the 16th century found Aziraphale in London, where he had been increasingly fond of residing of late. His previously mentioned collection required a more permanent residence. Thankfully, with the help of Crowley, he was able to find housing with a patron in Westminster, one who enjoyed having an eccentric alchemist in their home. While Aziraphale had been cross at Crowley labeling him an alchemist, it helped cover any minor miracles that occurred.

London was growing by leaps and bounds, and every day there was something new to explore. Some new shoppe or market or street seller. Oh, and the plays. Theatre as art was coming into its own, and entertainment seemed around nearly every corner. It almost made up for the lack of hygiene. Oh, how he missed Rome’s running water and regular bathing.14 Thankfully, Aziraphale’s fastidious nature was considered another eccentricity that was humored by his patrons.

In 1601, Aziraphale learned of a new play by William Shakespeare. Surely, Crowley would be delighted by some entertainment? It had been far too long since they’ve caught up over food and drink, as had become their custom, and he hoped Crowley was well. With the idea set in his mind, Aziraphale drafted a letter.

> My dearest Crowley,
> 
> I do hope this finds you in good spirits. I have been thinking it has been some time since we last met, and am hoping to entreat you to one of the newest plays of Mr. William Shakespeare, at his lovely Globe Theatre in Southwark, London along the bank of the river Thames, south of Maiden Lane. 
> 
> I assure you, we should be quite inconspicuous for a meeting there among the throngs of people, and perhaps we can seek fine dining after a performance. 
> 
> If you wish to meet, I shall be amongst the crowds, as I know we have naught had trouble locating each other hence. I shall be awaiting your presence with a warm heart.
> 
> Your affectionate friend,
> 
> A. Z. Fell

Having sent his letter to Crowley’s last known mailing address, folded over in such a way as to create an envelope with a dainty spring blossom tucked inside, Aziraphale was satisfied.

On the premiere date of the play _Hamlet_ , Aziraphale didn’t mind the lack of crowds. If anything it gave him first pick of the grapes. When Crowley arrived, deep in act three, Aziraphale noticed the demon sporting a petit goatee of ridiculous length from his chin; he strutted like a predator, circling his prey, said chin jutting out like he wanted everyone to notice it.

And of course, he immediately set Aziraphale in a flustered state, with his casual disdain and sly smile. He was obviously up to no good. Which became apparent as their conversation deepened, forcing Aziraphale to evoke the terms of the Arrangement.15

Crowley did have a point, they had… combined efforts before, with success. But it bothered Aziraphale, especially with the frequency he was often the one who ended up doing both the blessing and the tempting. He knew Crowley was cheating somehow, the wily serpent. One of these days they would get caught, he just knew it. 

At least Crowley was kind enough to capitulate to miracling up an audience for the despondent Mr. Shakespeare, in reciprocation for not having to go to Scotland. After the performance, they retired to Westminster, where they shared a lovely repast and some lovelier spirits. 

Later, at the end of the week, Aziraphale had to agree with Crowley. Horses _were_ hard on the buttocks.

14: Honestly, how had humanity allowed themselves to progress backward? 

15: Even though the demon was the one with the gall to say it aloud.

* * *

The fire of 1666 was hard on the angel, and Crowley swore he’d had no part. And he hadn’t. He could not be responsible for a careless baker, nor for the irresponsible acts of appointed paper-pushing officials. For days, winds spread the fire from the center of the city slowly westward, and when the ancient wall hadn’t stopped the spread, Aziraphale had worried about his blessed books. 

Who cared about the books, Crowley thought, when people’s lives were being decimated? They’d gotten into a bit of a row after that, and Crowley had left London for a time, to let cooler heads prevail. He tried to deny that his time apart from the angel was lonelier than usual, but he had to set a precedent. It lasted about a decade or so before they made amends.

Time marched on, battles were fought, populations waxed and waned at the whims of at least three of the four horsemen, the fourth collecting his dues ever diligently. European influence spread in what they were calling the New World, with no regard for those who were already living there. As witch hunts went out of fashion in Europe, they found a new fervor in the Americas. Crowley hadn’t even gone to the colonies and still received credit from his superiors. 

The turn of the 18th century kickstarted an industrial revolution, and as technology progressed, Pollution got a pony.16

Crowley, especially susceptible to the cold, had taken to finding a warm bed in the winters and claiming illness until spring. The winter in 1708-09 was so damn cold, he refused to even leave his rooms. Aziraphale would come and visit his “sick friend” periodically as the cold didn’t bother him as much. 

During the coldest nights, Crowley fantasized about curling around the angel and using him as a man-sized hot water bottle. Of course he never said this aloud, after all Aziraphale was kind enough to bring him hot toddies and delectables during his convalescence. 

What was absolute torture were the angel’s descriptions of the frost fairs held on the frozen Thames. On rare occasion, Aziraphale would go down and claim some mischief in Crowley’s name, just to help him keep up appearances down Below. One of Crowley’s few but most prized possessions was a fur-lined lap blanket that the angel had procured from one of those fairs.

The late 18th century saw an uptick in political unrest, causing revolts everywhere. The Americans made their bid for freedom - and won it. After the Seven Years’ War, and the American Revolution, France felt it was her turn for revolution. If you asked Crowley, they went a little overboard, declaring war on everyone like that.

During all this unrest, poor Aziraphale had started having trouble with his patrons. He needed more space for all those blasted books, and was increasingly worried about losing them. Around 1790 Crowley suggested the angel get his own place, use the books as a library or something the other. Aziraphale had looked aghast at the thought of loaning out his precious signed first editions. But, a couple bottles of Brandy later, Aziraphale had shot straight up in his chair and shouted, “Bookstore!”

“What?” Crowley blinked at the angel. “You eschhh- eggs- expect me to believe that you’d prefer selling your collection over lending them?”

Aziraphale made his sobering up face. “Listen. I can keep my personal collection in the back. The front can be used as a legitimate bookstore, where I can sell new editions!”

Not about to lose the warmth in his belly, Crowley remained intoxicated. “What do you know about running a bid- bizzzsssss- busy- a shop, anyway?” 

“It can’t be that hard, humans do it all the time.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Besides, I suppose I could hire someone until I got used to things.”

After that, Crowley had been spending a lot of time in France, since there was so much going on over there. They’d given him a commendation for the revolution, so he’d need to be seen in the area for a while just for appearance sake. He’d been trying to avoid the Bastille and the guillotine, but had both heard and felt something disturbing. There was talk about capturing an English nobleman, and he’d _felt_ what could only be Aziraphale. You can only spend so much time around another immortal being, without picking up a sense of them.

Sure enough, there was the angel, about to be led off to a beheading. How he got himself in these situations, Crowley would never guess. And for food, no less. After keeping Aziraphale from getting discorporated, he got them away from the Bastille with haste. The angel, true to his word, treated Crowley to what were, after all, some very excellent French crepes. While France revolted around them.

16: Pollution wouldn’t fully come into their own until Pestilence retired due to the use of antibiotics, but they made a good show of it in the meantime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next chapter, when we explore 1800, (the CUT SCRIPT SCENE) from Crowley's POV.


	5. Something I Can Never Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's POV for the Waterstone's exclusive 1800 script scene, plus 1862.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. TW/CW for possible suicidal ideation. Just want to put that out there, it's brief, and right after Crowley wakes up in 1862.
> 
> Link to the script for the scene in 1800: [HERE](https://kaeostennyo.tumblr.com/post/186333849437/aconissa-good-omens-episode-3-bonus-scene)
> 
> Minor liberties have been taken with the original text.  
> In the book Crowley woke up in 1832 to use the lavatory, so I kept the spirit of the text while preserving show canon.

Thought of you as my mountaintop  
Thought of you as my peak  
Thought of you as everything  
I've had, but couldn't keep

_Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground_

* * *

It took some time for Aziraphale to find an adequate site for his new bookshop. In 1800, he finally settled on a corner location in Soho. Crowley had watched (and sometimes helped) as the angel had gotten everything just so, and soon the shop would have its grand opening. To celebrate, he’d gone and selected the best chocolates he could find, and grabbed a small nosegay of flowers along the way.17

The sign painter had just finished their lettering, and the front door was open, so Crowley stood in the open entry to see Aziraphale talking to two gents. Not wanting to interrupt, he waved. That’s when he picked up on their conversation. 

“But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley.”

Oh. Angels! Well, good thing he didn’t just barge right in. He held up the package and mouthed, _‘Chocolates!’_ Maybe it would cheer Aziraphale up? He didn’t seem very happy to see his mystery guests.

The taller fellow dressed in a fine coat from what Crowley could see from the back said, “I do not doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are. Michael, perhaps?”

WHAT? They wanted to replace Aziraphale with Michael? _‘Michael’s a wanker!’_ he mouthed, and then had to bite his tongue to avoid hissing. They… they _couldn’t._ Having realized the danger he was in, Crowley stepped to the side, hiding himself by the doorframe just as he heard, 

“Crowley’s been down here just as long as I have. And he’s wily, and cunning, and brilliant, and, and... ohh...”

He could hear the distress in the angel’s voice, but all he could think about was the praise. Aziraphale thought he was brilliant? He missed the first half of the response to that, but caught, 

“...you like him.”

Crowley stopped breathing.

“I loathe him. And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent. Which he isn’t of course. Because he’s a demon. And I cannot respect a demon. Or like him. Like one. A demon, that is.”

Jaw clamped shut, Crowley’s world spun. This couldn’t be happening. He stayed in his hiding spot long enough to hear the interloping angel say he was heading to a tailor on Cork Street before coming back for Aziraphale, then dropped the nosegay and chocolates, and ran.

Once Crowley found the tailor’s shop, he dashed around back. There were some discarded old curtains and a few dummies so he got to work. When he saw the angel who he now recognized as Gabriel enter the shop, Sandalphon standing at the door, he prepared his little play. Arranging the dummy with the old curtain wrapped around it like a cloak in a dark corner so nobody peeking out from a window could tell what it really was, Crowley counted the seconds until he was sure Gabriel would hear, cleared his throat, and leaned toward the dummy. 

“Are you certain that we are unobserved, oh monstrous creature from the bowels of Hell?” He projected his voice to ensure being overheard.

In a wheezing gravelly drawl, he replied, “No one is listening, oh demon Crowley.”

He made a show of craning his neck from side to side as if looking around, and ensured the window the angel was looking out of was properly foggy enough to just make out it’s him, but not much else. Stomping about and acting cross, Crowley continued. 

“Curses. If only I could understand why my evil plans are always so brilliantly thwarted. It’s as if the forces of Heaven have a champion here on Earth who thwarts me… thwartingly…”

Right. He coughed quietly and in his best fake demon voice, “Why, Mr. Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Hell. They do say as how the angel Aziraphale, your nemesis, is being sent back to Heaven.”

Was he emoting enough? Maybe he should take it up a notch. He stepped back and clutched dramatically at his breast. “Can this be true? I was planning to swallow holy water in my despair at once more being outdone by the angel Aziraphale.” He threw his hands up in excitement. “But such excellent news! Only Aziraphale knows my wily ways well enough to…”

Er. “Thwart them?” he said with his fake monster voice.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed brightly. Slouching as dastardly as he could muster, he draped his arm over the form of the dummy and turned it away from the window, making as if to leave. “Now let us repair to an evil den of drinking and debauchery, and drink to the success of evil on this Earth, thanks to Heaven’s foolishness.” 

Dragging the dummy off to the side, away from the window, Crowley let out a shaky breath. Now all he could hope was that Gabriel bought it. 

After making his way back to the bookshop, he waited and watched from a pub across the way as the angels returned to Aziraphale’s shop and left again. Aziraphale followed them out, glanced around looking confused, then went back inside, closing and shuttering the entry door. It took all Crowley’s willpower to not rush straight over. Swirling the dregs of a pint, he thought about today’s events, and his own reactions. 

When had he started to care for that blessed angel so much? Well, they’d taken a couple millennia to find a sort of grudging camaraderie, and Aziraphale had shown him a kindness he’d never expected in the garden, when he had no reason to. Over time, Crowley had discovered where Aziraphale was strong, and where he was weak, and had encouraged that less than pious side of the angel, while finding out that as a demon, he had more heart than he ought. The thought that Aziraphale might go back to heaven had sent such an agonizing feeling… Wait.

Crowley blinked down at his glass. He thought back to all the times he’d felt… a sort of warmness in his chest around the angel. When had it started? As far back as he can remember, it’s always been there. But it had grown as they’ve become closer, spent more time together. He’d considered it friendship after all they’d been through; it had gone past a working relationship and a mere agreement after all. But this felt like… more. 

Looking across the street, Crowley reached out with his senses and could tell his angel was still inside, sitting in the back somewhere. Probably having some tea and biscuits, he thought fondly. This warmth was just friendship, right?

The evening light was golden as he made his way across the street and let himself into Aziraphale’s still mostly empty bookshop. At the counter was the nosegay he’d dropped, sitting inside a green glass bottle with some water. From the back he heard movement, and Aziraphale called out.

“We’re not open yet, not until Friday…” When the angel saw Crowley, he visibly sagged in relief. “Oh, my dear boy. I’m so sorry about earlier, are you quite all right?”

The clenching in Crowley’s chest at the sight of Aziraphale confirmed his suspicions. But he was a master manipulator, after all, he could get through this. “Yeah,” he said with nonchalance. “Figured it best I stay away while the higher ups were visiting. What did they want?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Well, you see, they, err…” He stared at the floor. 

“You didn’t get in trouble for France, did you?” 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t that!” Aziraphale looked up, eyes searching. But since Crowley was wearing his dark glasses, he couldn’t see into the demon’s eyes. “They gave me a medal.” 

“Oh, well that’s nice, then.”

“For devotion to duty.”

“Yes, yes, it feels good, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale was showing increased visible distress, so Crowley gave him an out, tilting his head towards the flowers. “I see you got my opening gift.”

“Oh, yes, they’re quite lovely.”

“And the chocolates?”

“Where are my manners. I was just having some tea. Would you like to come back and?...”

Crowley clenched his hands into fists behind his back. “Ahh, can’t right now. I’ve got to go report that angelic activity, and how I, er, thwarted them, you see. Later, yeah?”

“Of course, I completely understand. Perhaps we can meet for lunch before the shop opens?” Aziraphale didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Backing to the door, Crowley placed his palm on the handle. “I’ll get in touch. See you, angel!” And out the door he went.

“Good-bye, my… dear…” Crowley didn’t see the small smile Aziraphale gave the flowers before re-locking the door and disappearing into the back of the shop.

In his rooms, Crowley threw himself into a chair. Could it be? There was no precedent for it. But how? He was in love with Aziraphale. He wanted to be near the angel all the time, and he craved Aziraphale’s attention. Did he also crave to have his affections returned? He knew better than that. Aziraphale was too set in his ways to love a demon. Sure, they had become friends, but how could the angel ever fully trust him?

At his mostly unused writing desk, Crowley drank a large quantity of scotch. He had written out several versions of different plans, and discarded every one. As the sun rose the next morning, Crowley sat bleary-eyed, staring at his most recently crafted plot. It would appear mad to anyone other than himself, but nobody would ever see the proof of his machinations. After drafting two letters, Crowley went to acquire some laudanum, and to send off the letters.

The first letter, which was to be delivered to Hell, said thus:

> Whoever is currently in charge of me:
> 
> Two angels came this day and I believe they are in pursuit. Going into hiding, will send note when I am able to safely surface. 
> 
> Crowley.

The second letter would be delivered later that afternoon to the not-yet-open bookshop owned by an angel in Soho. 

> Angel, 
> 
> Hell has sent me on a mission. 
> 
> Cannot divulge more. 
> 
> Will be away for some period of time. 
> 
> (There was a large ink splotch under the last line, as if he couldn’t decide on a parting word.)
> 
> Stay safe.
> 
> —C

Aziraphale would get his letter, and stop by the home in which Crowley had been staying to discover he had apparently moved out, and his patron seemed confused about ever having a guest by that name staying there. 

17: And he absolutely did not pay attention to the language of flowers, or the fact that the nosegay consisted of daisies, geranium, white lily, and a touch of ivy.*

* Daisy: new beginnings, purity. Geranium: friendship/gentility. White lily: purity, sweetness, “it’s heavenly to be with you”. Ivy: affection, fidelity.

* * * * *

He was awake. Why was he awake? There was grey light showing underneath curtains that were neither dusty nor moth-eaten. Blinking slowly, Crowley allowed his body to come fully awake. There had been dreams. Sweet dreams, that were almost like memories of Heaven. Except they had included Aziraphale. The reminder of the reason for his slumber landed on his chest like a load of pavers. Once that sensation dulled some, he realized he needed the lavatory. 

After washing up, Crowley surveyed his room. It was exactly as it had been when he’d taken a laudanum induced nap however long ago. Speaking of. Placing his dark glasses upon his nose, Crowley peeked past the curtain. Below, the city appeared mostly as he’d last seen it. Although apparently they’d built a new clock tower; it was early morning. Merchants were slowly filtering out onto the street.

Knowing most of the household should still be asleep, Crowley snuck out to grab a newspaper. The year was 1862. Americans had found a reason to fight against themselves, it seemed. A new bridge was built just below that big clock tower. Feeling as caught up as his brain could handle at the moment, Crowley decided to lie back down. 

Now that he was fully awake, his mind would not shut up. How was Aziraphale’s shop doing? Was he still even in London? Did he think of Crowley?

Stop it. 

You are not a simpering ninny who pines over some unrequited lover. 

Think about something else. 

What?

Hell. Ahh, always a soothing topic.

Think about what would happen if Hell ever found out about your feelings.

Well, that was sobering. Would they want to torture him first, before destroying him to nothingness? Hmm. What if he beat them to it first? Destroyed himself? Or at least fended off his attackers long enough to make a run for it? What could outright kill a demon, outside of discorporation? A very few holy relics could manage that. But all the sharp and pointy ones were kept deep inside consecrated areas. 

With a sigh, Crowley stretched and stared listlessly at the pitcher and washbowl at his bedside. When was the last time he’d had a nice, hot, soaking bath? Even before he’d gone to sleep it had been ages. Getting large quantities of pure water flowing through London was a challenge. 

Wait.

Water. Pure water. Purified? _Holy._

Holy water would dissolve a demon into nothingness nicely. No coming back from that. Not that he particularly wanted to be the one dissolved into nothing. But if a Hellish pursuer were to be doused in it, if he had no other choice...

But where would he find some? Where did one get holy water? Churches had it. Once again, consecrated ground. That left angels.

Crowley knew an angel. Would it be possible for Aziraphale to procure some for him? Couldn’t hurt to ask. 

With a new mission in mind, he sprang from bed and wrote a quick letter to Aziraphale to meet him discreetly at Saint James’s: Do not ask questions, and time was of the essence. Snapping his fingers, he magicked it to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Now, what were gentlemen wearing these days?

On his way to the park, which appeared to have been remodeled recently, Crowley thought about meeting Aziraphale again, especially after his revelation. He would have to act cool, possibly aloof. Once he arrived at the pond, he adjusted his ridiculous hat. And waited. Half an hour later, the angel showed, keeping a respectable distance. Good. 

Just for a brief moment, he watched the angel from behind his dark glasses. Has he gained mass, or was it an illusion from the hair on the side of his face? When Aziraphale began feeding the birds from whatever he was hiding in his hat, Crowley started speaking. Of course the first thing the angel brought up was their difference in status. Fallen. It wasn’t fair. 

Crowley mentioned he needed a favor. Aziraphale brought up the Arrangement, but this fell outside its vague confines. For if it all went pear-shaped.

“I like pears,” Aziraphale said as if he hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. 

Oh, angel. When he handed over the scrap of paper with two words on it, Crowley felt his tension rise to new levels, and he began to babble about ducks. Could Aziraphale do this one thing for him? Apparently not. He came awfully close to guessing the truth.

At the angel’s use of ‘fraternizing’ Crowley snapped. He said things he regretted immediately. Aziraphale storming off felt like a turning point in their relationship, and Crowley stewed, watching the ducks for a time, the paper that had ignited long turned to soggy ash at the bottom of the pond. Slowly, as if he’d become arthritic, Crowley trudged back to his rooms. 

More magical warding and more laudanum, and Crowley slept for a few more decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, we find out how Aziraphale spent the 19th century.


	6. Lonely Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's time spent in the 19th century.  
> Featuring the Gavotte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!  
> Note there are some slang words used to refer to gays in this chapter.  
> More mixing of book and show canon, referencing Aziraphale learning magic tricks.

I took for granted, all the times  
That I thought would last somehow  
I hear the laughter, I taste the tears  
But I can't get near you now

_Right Here Waiting - Richard Marx_

* * *

After Aziraphale had discovered Crowley up and vanished without a trace, he was hurt. Of course Crowley had left on assignments before, but to alter the memories of his patron like that? It just didn’t make sense. Could it have to do with Gabriel and Sandalphon showing up? Was he in trouble with Hell? Oh dear.

In his book shop, Aziraphale fretted with the flowers Crowley had left just yesterday. Not wanting the length of green ribbon that had been tied around their stems to become sodden, Aziraphale had undone the nosegay and let the flowers arrange themselves in the bottle he’d found. The chocolates, well, he’d eaten half of them out of nervousness, originally having thought he would never taste chocolates again up in Heaven. But he had saved and meant to share the rest with Crowley, after realizing he could stay. 

Letting out a breath, Aziraphale turned to work on filling his shelves. After all, the shop was opening on Friday. He did his best to ignore the fact that Crowley would most likely not be there for the opening. Thankfully, he stayed busy enough with new business things so that Crowley’s absence didn’t bother him as much. But as the years progressed, he missed his friend. 

In his heart, it was as if a hole had developed. They’d known each other for so long, and Aziraphale felt a certain fondness and companionship had grown between them. In spite of their differences, they were friends. And while the world around him seemed to explode with new and wondrous human inventiveness, there was no-one with which to share in the wonder.

1816 was a strange year, labeled the Year Without Summer, and Aziraphale hoped Crowley was alright. He was always more sensitive to colder temperatures and appreciated the warmth of the Sun. Food went scarce, and there were quite a few riots. Aziraphale took opportunity to exert influence and encourage charity. 

Other than a few local events of note, the world spun too fast for Aziraphale, and he did his best to simply hold on for the ride and do what he could. Having taken pity on an orphan, he let the young lad work in the shop which increased his sales. A young girl he’d met at the flower market was making stationery with embedded flowers, and he started offering that as well. He never noticed the reputation he developed among others for his kind and odd behavior, but Aziraphale enjoyed the extra company that new acquaintances provided. While life kept his days occupied, his new role in the community did little to fill the hole in his heart, or the lonely times at night when he wished he had acquired Crowley’s habit of sleeping. 

In 1851, the Great Exhibition was held in Hyde Park, and at first Aziraphale had been hesitant to go. His new clerk was excited to view the exhibitions, with the whole thing staying open between May and October. After hearing of the many wondrous human things, and his clerk’s insistence, Aziraphale had been enticed by the idea that there would be all sorts of new foods to try and closed the shop during a weekday in late May.

Oh, there was so much human ingenuity to wonder at, so much he’d missed while not paying attention. The structure itself, dubbed the Crystal Palace, was a fascinating construction of glass and ironwork. Upon realizing there were many literary authors in attendance, Aziraphale made time to meet them. A great many signed books for his personal collection came from the endeavor. 

Aziraphale delved deeper into his bookshop, spending more time in the back as the years passed. He paid only passing attention to events, new structures being built in the city, or the new innovations that seemed to be produced daily. His acquaintances dragged him out for dining, encouraged him to update his wardrobe, worried about his melancholy. 

In late Summer 1862, Aziraphale was pretending to work on his accounts when his clerk, Robert, brought him a letter. One look at the atrocious handwriting, and he knew exactly who had sent it. Ripping it open, it took him two readings to comprehend how short it was, and what Crowley wanted. It looked like something was wrong. After over sixty years of silence, of course he would see what Crowley wanted. Suddenly nervous, he dashed about gathering coat and gloves, stumbling over his own feet in his own haste, checking his cravat and waistcoat in the mirror. Robert came to the door.

“Everything alright, sir?”

“Oh, yes, I just need to step out for a moment, Robert. I will be back shortly.”

Aziraphale was halfway out the door before he realized his hat was missing, and it took another five minutes to locate it.

* * * * *

The meeting was not what he had expected. Crowley was terse, and asked for holy water of all things. What was that blasted demon planning? He had said something about walls, and trees, and ducks having ears. He had been right, Crowley was in some sort of trouble and with no way to regularly contact him.

Aziraphale regretted letting his emotions get to him, storming off after the request. Holy water! Of all things to ask for. In the back of the bookshop once again, Aziraphale played the conversation back in his mind. 

_“I have other people to fraternize with, angel.”_

Did that mean he had someone else to acquire what he wanted? Oh dear. 

“Mr. Fell?” Robert stood at the door to the back room, a worried look on his face. “Sir, you seem upset. Should I get some tea, or…?”

Aziraphale stopped pacing and realized he had been wringing his gloves with both hands. Flopping them onto the table, he turned to his clerk. “No, thank you, Robert. In fact, how about you have the rest of the day off? I think I would like to close up early.” 

“You sure, sir? I don’t mind—” 

“No!” Aziraphale snapped, before controlling his temper. “I would like to be alone now, if you do not mind. So go along.”

“But sir.”

“OUT!”

He hated raising his voice, but Robert backed away with an apology and gathered his coat before exiting the shop, the bell jangling merrily. With a wave, the door locked itself and the shade lowered, the open sign flipped to closed. He needed a drink. Something much stronger than tea.

The shop stayed closed for the rest of the week. Aziraphale did a great amount of thinking (and drinking) in that time, and had decided it was time to get over… whatever this was. He had waited sixty-two years for word from Crowley, and when they met, he had been absolutely fine, as usual. Their interaction had been terse, and the demon had asked for something he absolutely could not give.

Perhaps it was time for Aziraphale to focus more on his angelic duties. He hadn’t been necessarily neglecting them, but he hasn’t been putting much effort, either. When the shop opened that coming Monday, Aziraphale had resolved to do better. No more moping. He gave Robert more responsibilities, and spent more time out of the shop.

When the London Underground opened, he gave it a small blessing to prevent cave-ins. He even took small trips abroad to deliver more blessings, relieve suffering, and do good works. He told himself he wasn’t hoping to spot Crowley somewhere, seeing as he’d disappeared from London again. 

While he would never say he was responsible for anti slavery laws in the United States, he did help plant some seeds.

During all this, Aziraphale’s private book collection grew, many signed first editions placed carefully in storage. Human communication, transportation, and invention kept progressing, and the angel hoped this might lead to a new era of peace. France gifted America an enormous statue as a sign of good will! Of course there were some wrinkles to iron out, but overall he felt humanity was making progress.18 Now, if someone could do something about this sooty fog all over London. It was starting to affect his books.

18: Of course, Aziraphale could not, and was not allowed to try and fix everything, as per Heaven’s orders, but he tried his best.

* * * * *

Aziraphale tried to keep up with the human world around him, even though he found it difficult at times. One subject that captured his interest was magic tricks. There was one man, John Maskelyne, whose exposé of false spiritualists at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly fascinated him. 

After seeing the show, he learned Maskelyne was going to teach a class, showing basic party tricks. Aziraphale already knew a simple coin trick, having learned it from a street vendor centuries ago, and signed up immediately. He spent most of a year practicing sleight of hand, coin palming, and hat tricks. Much to the annoyance of his current clerk and the customers who he managed to corner and practice on. 

Another thing that Aziraphale took up was learning to dance. It had been a startling revelation that he wanted to learn at all. But it took up a large amount of time, and he met some interesting fellows at a discreet gentlemen’s club at Portland Place.

It started because one of his newer acquaintances had taken him out to a pub. There were a number of literary people in attendance, and Aziraphale may have imbibed more than usual among humans in his excitement. It had gotten late, and someone suggested taking their conversation to a gentlemen’s club nearby, and Aziraphale had readily agreed. It was a fine evening, so a group of about four of them walked there and were let in by a doorman. 

The building was lovely, with mosaic floors and rich woodwork. The gentleman who had invited them, a Mr. Johnson, spoke with a man behind a desk, then led them to a billiards room. There, they settled in comfy armchairs, and were served cigars and stiff drinks. Aziraphale took the opportunity to indulge, as they fell into another deep discussion about books. 

One by one, their group took leave, and Mr. Johnson, his benefactor for the evening, asked him to call him Thomas, and inquired Aziraphale if he would like to join the club. Interested in the concept of having a social life to occupy his time, Aziraphale asked for more information. Thomas excitedly told him of all the grand activities that took place, including private sleeping quarters, baths, gaming, a small theatre, and fine dining. 

At first, the whole affair seemed indulgent, but Thomas piqued his interest with dancing lessons. Angels, as a rule, do not dance. But Aziraphale has been to his fair share of public functions, and was intrigued at the notion. He decided to join. Lessons started that next week, so Aziraphale went out and purchased some new shoes for the occasion.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t very good at learning the dance moves. They were supposed to be learning to Gavotte, and Aziraphale’s feet weren’t cooperating. Thankfully, another member, young Joseph, granted Aziraphale extra tutelage. He was a sweet young man, and ever so patient. His father had made his fortune in imports, and Joseph told Aziraphale that he was glad to have found a club where he felt he belonged. Joseph was also very fond of physical affection, which was new to Aziraphale, but he accepted the affection with joy. Until he realized what Joseph’s end goal was, that is.

Now, one must realize, that for weeks, the angel had no clue about some of the club’s specific extra-curriculars that occurred within its walls. He knew about men engaging in sexual relations with each other, but what he hadn’t realized was this specific club was dedicated to men of that particular persuasion. Thomas, who had invited him to join, had identified Aziraphale by his mannerisms as a poof, or fey, or having sexual interest in men. While the angel certainly acted that way, up to this point he’d never considered any sort of sexual interest in anything. He realized his mistake when poor Joseph, in a pique of frustrated desire, made to grope at Aziraphale’s groin. 

Unless they make an effort, angels are sexless. Aziraphale, not knowing he was supposed to make said effort, surprised the poor chap by not having anything in particular to grope. This panicked Joseph, who asked if he’d been courting a woman this whole time. In no uncertain terms, Aziraphale tried to explain he didn’t have those parts either, which further confused the young man. 

It took some time, but Aziraphale and Joseph came to an agreement to remain friends, and the young man may, in the pursuit of knowledge, have taught the angel a thing or two about human sexuailty19 as well as how to dance the gavotte with flair. When Joseph was sent overseas by his father to help expand his importing business, Aziraphale gave him a small blessing for safe passage and luck in love. While sexual relations between men was legally forbidden, and was taboo among the Church, the angel saw nothing wrong with finding happiness and love with someone regardless of their preference. 

Eventually, as the dance lessons expanded past the gavotte, and Aziraphale was even worse at learning those new dance steps, he cancelled his membership with the gentlemen’s club. While he enjoyed the companionship, humans lived such fleeting lives, and it pained him to maintain connections with people, and have to constantly lie about his life. It was bad enough that he had to let his last store clerk go because he noticed Aziraphale hadn’t aged. 

Whenever something like this happened, Aziraphale would usually lock up the shop and take a short vacation, then come back and claim to be a relative of the previous owner. After hearing of the death of Oscar Wilde, it seemed a good time as any to take a holiday, and start anew. In December of 1900, he left a note on his door and a letter for his current clerk. 

19: Aziraphale does not kiss and tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *knocks on screen*  
> Are you guys enjoying this?
> 
> Anyway, next week we will delve into the 20th century!  
> Spoiler: Crowley wakes up!


	7. All the miles that separate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale at the turn of the twentieth century, through World War 1, The Great Depression, and the start of World War 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, mutual pining.  
> I left the war front alone, and focused more on London. Although I do give a summary of Crowley's time in Europe.  
> Just so you know what to expect.  
> Sorry, but I'm not much of a war historian.  
> Even if I have done a ridiculous amount of research.
> 
> Brace yourselves, this chapter is 4k words!

Out of the darkness you suddenly appeared  
You smiled and I was taken by surprise  
I guess I should have seen right through you  
But the moon got in my eyes.

_The Moon Got In My Eyes - Frank Sinatra_

* * *

Crowley awoke from his decades long slumber with a start. Blinking, he looked about his room. It was bright day shining under the curtain, chilly, and there was a noise in the hall. Apparently the family which had housed him for so long was going through an upheaval. One determined woman kept glaring at the stretch of wall where Crowley’s rooms were located, as if puzzled. His wards were wearing off. He quickly departed, and found a charming mansion flat in Mayfair. 

Once settled, Crowley spent much of his time catching up on history. Oh, what a century to decide to sleep through! There was so much he missed. He wondered how Aziraphale had reacted to certain events, then stopped himself. The angel was the impetus for his long nap, and he should try to move on. Especially after how they last parted ways.

> _“I don't need you.”_
> 
> _“And the feeling is mutual! Obviously.”_

Groaning, Crowley leaned against the window frame and looked out upon the sprawling city. That was a spectacular way to ruin a friendship. Maybe it was for the best, as this would allow him to keep his distance. Still, maybe he should just pop on by, check on the angel, see if their arrangement was still in place? Or at least see how the bookshop has been doing. After all, it was winter; Aziraphale would never expect to find Crowley wandering about in cold weather. 

After finding enough layers to keep him sufficiently warm, Crowley started the journey. On the way, he spotted one of those new motorcars, and was fascinated. Travel without horses, brilliant. Although quite loud. 

The closer to Aziraphale’s bookshop, the more nervous Crowley got. In spite of the cold weather, his palms were sweating. When he caught sight of the red of the shop’s facade, he swallowed down his nerves. Upon his arrival, he discovered the shop locked up, and a notice on the door that declared it was closed due to family emergency. 

Family? Emergency? What? There was a moment of panic before Crowley remembered that if Aziraphale wanted to keep the shop, he would have to do something to avoid suspicion due to his lack of aging. He let out a breath and headed to the pub across the way. 

Humans, in general, were particularly nosey. If you wanted to know the goings-on in an area, just find a local meeting place and start them gossiping. After a couple rounds, Crowley had made some new “friends” and they were happy to chat about the closed bookshop across the street. Mostly they talked about how the clerk was let go with severance pay. And that until the day the notice had appeared on the door, the owner would stop in on occasion for lunch.

How long has he been gone? The bartender responded that the shop has been shut up since the beginning of December. It was now late January, and once Crowley’s questions stopped, the other patrons discussed the passing of Queen Victoria, and speculated on when they would hold the funeral. Disappointed, Crowley finished his pint, and took a cab back to his flat. 

About once a week, Crowley found excuses to be in the neighborhood of the shop, until one day in mid February, the notice was gone, the window shades open. Trying to not appear too eager, Crowley waited until mid-day, hoping to tempt the angel to lunch. The door opened with the merry jingle of a bell. Dusty and quiet, the shop appeared as if it had not yet received any new deliveries. He resisted calling out, and gazed about the shop, as he’d never seen it fully finished. The front was cramped, books filling narrow shelves. A cupola with more books on unreachable shelves stretched over a storey high. Toward the back there was a doorway, leading to where Aziraphale most likely spent a good portion of his time. Hesitant, Crowley stepped forward.

Standing at the doorway, Crowley took in the cluttered sitting room that made up Aziraphale’s office. There were already some half-finished teacups scattered about, and books on nearly every surface. A scuffling noise around a corner drew his attention, and Aziraphale appeared with a plate of sandwiches. 

“Oh, So sorry, I didn’t hear the bell. How may I—” Upon recognizing Crowley, Aziraphale fumbled the plate, almost spilling. “Crowley!”

Crowley watched his expression turn from surprised, to a brief happiness, to shuttered, as he set down his plate on a nearby horizontal surface. “Hello, angel,” he replied, keeping his face neutral.

Hands clasped at his front, Aziraphale straightened. “Back from galavanting about, I see. Cause much trouble?”

Unable to answer that question, Crowley diverted the topic. “I stopped by earlier, noticed the sign. Family trouble, eh?” He put on a wry smile. 

“Yes, well. You know how humans are. If they don’t see you aging properly, they call you a witch. I spent some time abroad so I could claim a death in the family and take over as a relative.”

Lips pursed, Crowley considered. “Smart strategy, that. And if you just happen to look exactly like the previous owner, well, family resemblance and all.”

They stood there awkwardly a moment, Crowley looking at the angel from behind his shaded glasses, Aziraphale avoiding eye contact. Then the angel gathered his wits. “How rude of me, where are my manners? Please, sit. Would you like some tea?”

Just like that, it was almost back to how they used to be. Emphasis on almost. Aziraphale remained stiff around Crowley, on guard. And Crowley followed suit, making sure to hide his feelings behind snark, sarcasm, and biting remarks. The angel smiled less now, at least around Crowley, his stories less energetic than they used to be. Completely gone were the casual touches to which he’d grown so accustomed. That worked in Crowley’s favor, since he wanted to avoid the angel-shaped spot in his heart he’d walled off. 

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t learn what Crowley had been doing while he was away, and it bothered him. There was a new tension between them he couldn’t shake. Part of it was a societal shift from affectionate, casual touching to more rigid interactions, but there was something different about Crowley now. It was just as well, since he shouldn’t be interacting with the demon so much, anyway. 

They met at most every few months, and only for easy missions, and in public places. The pond at St. James’s was popular with human spies, so they gravitated to the location, and eventually shop visits were a rarity. It was not uncommon for them to go a whole year with only the briefest of contact.

The distance that had grown between them hurt, and Aziraphale was torn. On one hand, it made him less wary about getting caught by Heaven or Hell. On the other hand, he missed their friendship. It had always been a fragile thing, like spider silk connecting the two immortal beings. Or perhaps he’d been reading too much poetry. Either way, their interactions had consequences for both of them, so Aziraphale didn’t try for more. 

Time passed, and while Heaven and Hell started murmuring about the potential of apocalypse at the end of the century, humanity moved forward at full tilt. The ability to replay recorded music, communication across great distances, flight! And, of course, war. Humans were so obsessed with territorial borders. Aziraphale tended to avoid such conflicts, while Crowley kept up with them in the hopes of passing off some conflict as his own idea without having to do actual work.

What had seemed at the time as an affair between the Germans, Austria-Hungary, France and Russia among other European countries, inflated into a global conflict that not only included British involvement, but grew to encompass other global conflicts under the same war. Having been dubbed the Great War for its scope and destruction, it bothered Aziraphale just how far people would go. 

One meeting, in 1917, Aziraphale found Crowley looking quite pale, sitting at a park bench and staring into space, a folded newspaper in his lap. He wore a newsboy cap, and kept it pulled low over his sunglasses. Aziraphale adjusted his own boater before settling on the far edge of the bench, hands in his lap. 

“How are you, dear boy?” he asked.

Crowley frowned, looked down at the paper in his lap. “Hmm… This war, it’s particularly nasty business.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs. “Do you expect the bombings to continue?”

The newspaper in Crowley’s lap was crushed between his fists. “As long as the war continues, we can expect more bombings.”

“Oh. How terrible.” Aziraphale knew there had to be more than this, and silently watched Crowley’s hands clench harder around the newspaper. It took a moment for the demon to speak again.

“Downstairs is asking me to take a larger role in this war, angel.” Crowley seemed to deflate. “They want me stirring trouble right in the thick of it.” 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, and the thought of Crowley doing whatever Below required him doing... Someone knew what, Someone knew where, filled him with an indescribable fear. With nothing to clench except his own hands, they were in a white knuckle clasp at his chest. He tried to keep his voice even. “Do you know what side…?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not yet. But they’re expecting me soon, and…” Aziraphale watched him swallow, jaw clenched. “They’ve already offered expedited re-corporation, and to expect to not return to London until after the war ends.”

“That’s ghastly! Could I—” Aziraphale was going to suggest his assistance, but Crowley held up his hand.

“This war, do what you’ve been doing, unless Upstairs wants you involved.” Crowley turned to face him for the first time since their conversation started. “Both sides have mostly stayed out of this until now, and I don’t want…” He let out a breath. “I’ve seen what war does to you, angel.” 

He had a point, Aziraphale had never handled the old Holy punishments well, and watching humans kill each other was almost worse, because they could be so much more cruel. “But I can!—” 

“Angel.” Crowley grasped the fabric of Aziraphale’s sleeve, his head low so his expression couldn’t be seen. “Stay here. Keep London safe. You’re the British Principality after all.” 

It was true, he was charged with protecting Britain, but he was supposed to keep interference in human matters without orders to a minimum. 

“All right.” He raised his hand to place it on Crowley’s, still gripping his sleeve.

Crowley yanked away as if burned, and stood up, cramming his hands in his pockets. “Be well, angel. I’ll be back before you know it.” He turned and started walking away before Aziraphale could respond. 

Aziraphale stood and called out, “Fare well, Crowley. I would give blessings, but…”

The demon raised one hand in acknowledgement before disappearing around a tree. 

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale felt a pressure behind his eyes, and blinked it away, glancing around the pond. He stared at the ducks a while, then pulled a crushed crust of bread from his pocket to feed them.

* * *

In Hell, Crowley received his orders. It surprised him that all they wanted was for him to sow dissent and discord among those affected by the war. Not soldiers, not officers responsible. But the masses whose own homes were getting decimated by the ongoing fighting. Not about to question his superiors,20 Crowley quickly headed back up to Earth. 

He spent much of his time in war-ravaged villages, commiserating with those who had lost their homes because of the ongoing war. Misery was the order of the day in most of these places anyway, so Crowley found his way to cities that at least offered some creature comforts. How had all this gotten kicked off by an assassination in Bosnia?

All over there were food shortages and rationing, which Crowley had of course seen before. But he’d never seen it paired with the threat of deadly chemical gases. If he didn’t need to worry about being bombed and the necessity of having to send down regular reports, Crowley would have slept through the rest of this bloody war.

November of 1918 brought the official end of the war, but it wasn’t the end of conflict. Even as the Paris Peace Conference happened, individual wars continued to rage. Finally in the summer of 1920, Crowley was allowed leave from Western Europe. 

He made his way back to London as fast as modern transport could take him. The sight of Aziraphale’s bookshop, standing untouched in the night-time gloom, caused him to let out a sigh of relief he didn’t even know he had been holding in. But it wouldn’t do to storm in unannounced in the dead of night, so Crowley found an inn; he could sort his flat and then see the angel in the morning.

20: Out loud, anyway.

* * *

During the Great War, Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s words to heart, and had spent many a night thwarting German bombing attempts as much as possible without getting in trouble for excessive interference. Short-term and localized manipulations in the atmosphere were allowed, so high winds, fog, and rain were at his disposal. It wasn’t perfect, but it was what he could do. Well, that, and placing protective blessings on strategic locations within the city.

The announcement of the armistice came and went, along with the official end of the war. Large waves of men returned from combat, with warm welcome. But not Crowley. It was growing colder, so perhaps the demon had decided to winter in warmer climes? When spring of 1919 came and went with no word from Crowley, Aziraphale began to wonder if he were going to disappear for multiple decades again. 

_“I’ll be back before you know it,”_ he’d said. 

“Liar,” Aziraphale whispered.

It was a dreary day in June 1920, and Aziraphale was filling out accounts in the back of his shop. He wasn’t paying attention when the bell rang, or when there was quiet conversation between someone and his current clerk. Thomas, his clerk, knocked on the doorframe and Aziraphale looked up from his ledgers, reading spectacles perched on his nose. “Yes?”

“Sir, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Capping his pen, Aziraphale turned in his chair. “If this is another salesman, I’ve told you—”

“Not a salesman, angel.”

That voice! “Crowley!”

Aziraphale stood up to see a figure in shadow. “That will be all, Thomas.” 

As Thomas turned from the doorway and nodded to the visitor, Aziraphale watched Crowley step into the light of the room. Oh, he was dressed so sharply in a dark suit, flaming hair slicked back, and what in the hell was that on his lip? “Good Lord, what is with that dreadful ginger caterpillar on your face?”

“You don’t like it?” Crowley reached up to touch his mustache, his other hand clutching a black Homburg hat. He seemed oddly… unsure of himself, which was odd. Aziraphale decided to change the subject. 

“I was wondering when you would turn up again. How was Europe? Or have you been further abroad? Do come sit, my dear.” Aziraphale was fluttery, he needed to settle. And he was babbling. 

Crowley opted to perch at the armrest of the small sofa, and placed his hat on a stack of books atop a side table. “Just got back to London yesterday. Downstairs wouldn’t let me go until recently, and I’ve seen my fill of bloody violence, angel.” 

He raised a hand to pinch at his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Spent most of my time in Europe, Especially France and Weimar.”* Glancing around, he asked, “And you? The shop hasn’t changed much.”

Behind the dark glasses, Aziraphale could feel Crowley judging his clothing. It may not be the latest cut, but it was well-made, and comfortable. Humans always changed fashion too fast for him to keep up, so he stuck with a few classic pieces. “Yes, well. Books are always in demand. I have increased my collection of signed first-editions, of course.”

A soft smile grew on Crowley’s face. It was a bit disconcerting, since Aziraphale had grown accustomed to sly half-grins or scowls from the demon. Crowley shifted and pulled something from an inner pocket, wrapped in lovely grey silk. “Found something in Germany, err… Weimar. Thought you might like it.”

Aziraphale accepted it, and unwrapped a small silver snuffbox with cherubs dancing on the lid. “Oh, Crowley, this is lovely. Thank you ever so much.”

The demon sniffed and looked away. “You know how I feel about thanks. Besides, be careful opening that, there’s still some white snuff in there.”

“White..?” Aziraphale opened the box to find some loose white powder. “Oh.” He’d have to be careful, they were making cocaine illegal. But it’s not like anyone but him were interested in his collection of snuffboxes, let alone what was inside of them. He carefully rewrapped it in the silk cloth, and set it aside. “Would you care for some lunch?”

Crowley stiffened and reached for his hat. “Actually, I need to make sure I still have a flat. See you later?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale followed him to the shop’s door. “Do feel free to stop by, Crowley. You needn’t be a stranger.”

“Right.” Crowley cleared his throat and looked around, then placed his hat upon his head. “Later, Aziraphale.”

“Do take care,” Aziraphale replied, as Crowley stepped out to the street and strode with his unique gait across the road and around a corner.

…

“Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale shook himself from where he’d been staring out the rain-streaked window at nothing, Crowley long gone. “Yes, Thomas?”

“That man a friend of yours?” 

“Well, perhaps you could call us friendly enemies, almost rivals.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. “We have known each other for a very long time.”

After that, he could no longer focus on his accounts, and spent some time staring at the silver snuffbox Crowley had brought him. 

*A/N: Weimar Republic was what Germany was unofficially known as after WW1. It didn’t take. 

* * *

Oblivious angel. 

Crowley stalked back to his flat through the miserable drizzle. He cursed himself for giving Aziraphale that blasted snuff box. But it had been an impulse when he’d gotten it, and what was he going to do with it anyway? At the entrance to his building, he took off his hat and shook it, sending water droplets scattering. Shoes that wouldn’t even think of getting muddy clomped up the stairs to his flat.

Maybe he needed a hobby? If he were distracted, maybe he could get his mind off of these… feelings he had for Aziraphale. He’d get over it eventually, right? Demons weren’t made for, well, _love_. Terrible four letter word, that. 

In his flat, he hung up his coat and hat, placing his dark glasses on a small table in the entry. Dust cloths still covered the sparse furnishings, and he stalked about balling them up, revealing furniture of rich woods, plush fabrics, and soft leather. Settees, armchairs, low tables, shelving. Ahh, the liquor cabinet. 

He stood in his parlor, taking in the muted light through a wall of windows. Perhaps he should put some plants in here. Make a small indoor garden? It wasn’t like he actually entertained anyone ever,21 and if anyone did come by, the plants could be a conversation topic. The next sunny day, he should visit some conservatories, see what would work indoors. 

Over the next few years, Crowley enjoyed a relatively quiet existence. He and Aziraphale kept their distance unless one or the other wanted to invoke the arrangement. Crowley’s cool demeanor towards the angel worked to keep him from inviting the demon to lunch. 

His parlor had become home to a few select plants that he had taken great care in selecting and potting, having learned how to properly water and fertilize them. Judicious pruning kept them sufficiently green, and he had no patience for wilting, spots, or aphids.22 It was a particular place of pride. 

The growth of the automobile industry had Crowley yearning for a vehicle of his own. One that didn’t require beasts to feed and house, or cabs to call. He could just get in and go. There had been several different models he’d test-driven, but hadn’t quite found one that felt “him”. Mercedes still felt too much like a carriage, Lancia was a boxy mess as well as the Morris. Vauxhalls were just uninspiring, and he’d already disregarded anything American. 

A Rolls-Royce had almost caught his fancy, but then one day he’d spotted the new Bentley, and knew what he wanted. It was long and sleek, and looked like something he could drive to Hell and back. Plus the hood ornament had wings, which of course didn’t affect his judgment at all. 

He’d ordered and had delivered to his flat the newest 1926 model, and when he slid behind the wheel, it was like slipping into a body glove. “Hello, beautiful,” he said, running his hand along the dash. New models would come and go, and the Bentley would modify itself to meet Crowley’s needs over the years,23 but it was _his,_ and he took care of it proper.

Humanity had its highs and lows, but Crowley, who had lived through millennia, weathered most of them and took advantage of the lows, claiming some form or responsibility. While he couldn’t claim responsibility for the stock market crashes of 1929,24 he could claim credit down Below for some of the horrible things that happened in the resulting economic depression. Cascading bank failures caused instability, unemployment skyrocketed, and machinations started turning in the aftermath that would grow to have global ramifications. 

They say hindsight is 20-20. This was even true for angels and demons. They could see the pieces moving before the second world war, but when you have lived for over five thousand years, one was used to slower movement, often ignoring the individual pieces in play. After all, the Roman Empire could have never consumed territory as fast as the rise of fascism did in the decades following The Great War. 

Human power plays were usually considered below the notice of celestial interference, unless demonic meddling was perceived. By the time they realized what was happening, Heaven couldn’t stop it, and Hell scrambled to keep up with the humans. 

Britain, having remembered their lessons during the last great war, started preparing for the return of air raids. What good were treaties if they weren’t upheld? Not wanting to get trapped in war-torn Europe, Crowley devised an early plan to infiltrate spy groups, and convinced higher-ups that covert operations were better than outright temptation to evil. He was allowed relatively free rein. 

Aziraphale had not been so lucky, as Heaven once again insisted he limit miracles, claiming something about piety through suffering. Crowley thought it was a load of bullshit, and was glad that as long as he turned in enough reports, he mostly could do as he liked. Except hang around Aziraphale. Heaven was going to keep the angel on a tight leash, and Crowley didn’t want to risk losing Aziraphale by getting him in trouble. Thankfully, his assignment was spywork.

Crowley’s influence helped create Section D,25 initially based out of Westminster and later on Baker Street. In need of a full name, he chose Anthony J. Crowley, no relation to the infamous Aleister. Able to thrive within the machinations of sabotage and subterfuge, Crowley stayed in the shadows and was behind some of the more successful double agents during the war. 

21: Crowley kept a furnished flat because that’s just what one _did_. Humans would get suspicious if they ever had reason to enter his flat and found nothing but a liquor cabinet and a bed.

22: He wouldn’t start “talking” to his plants until the 70’s.

23: including matching the 1933 body style with grey side panels, as well as later developing the originally unavailable electrical wiring for a stereo. And of course the lack of need for petrol.

24: Although he did have a hand in creating the stock market.

25: Part of MI6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, some thoughts: 
> 
> An extraordinary amount of weather phenomena thwarted Nazi bombings in WWI.
> 
> Weimar: I thought it would be interesting to have Crowley use the term for Germany, even though apparently not that many people used it.
> 
> Look at this snuff box!  
> And according to the source, it's GERMAN and from the right era!  
>   
> I'm not sure exactly how popular powdered cocaine was in the 20's other than what I've seen on Bright Young Things, but there was a late 19th century vintage fortified wine that contained cocaine.  
> *whispers* it was the inspiration for Coca-Cola
> 
> I headcanon the Bentley is probably sentient by now.
> 
> *craves validation in the form of comments*


	8. From Ash and Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's World War Two, and there are books and an angel to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not posting last week, Friday got away from me, and since I'd BEEN posting on fridays, it felt weird to post on another day.  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter song was actually written by Isham Jones and Gus Kahn but Frank Sinatra's version is the most well known.

For nobody else gave me a thrill  
With all your faults, I love you still  
It had to be you, wonderful you

_It Had To Be You - Frank Sinatra_

* * *

As Aziraphale watched the world speed towards another massive war, Heaven had him hobbled with miracle limits once again. Determined to do some actual good, he turned to helping the community. He helped with pre-war preparations, when Britain declaring war was bound to happen at any moment. When children were evacuated from London, he set small blessings of protection on them. Calculations of casualties from expected air raids were astronomical. 

After war was declared, an air raid siren went off and London held its collective breath.

The beginning of the war was surprisingly quiet on the home front. There were no air raids, and life went on as normal. Well, except for increased military presence. And the threat of violence at any moment, and increased rationing. Not to mention the IRA doing some damage of their own, which was horribly ill-timed in Aziraphale’s opinion.

German attacks started the summer of 1940, and mostly focused on shipping lanes and military installations. Crowley told him that German leadership couldn’t decide how best to attack, and it led to delays. That, and Hitler was more focused on Russia at the time. 

August saw some cities hit, but it wasn’t until September that the real air raids would start, and keep coming for months, first during the day and them primarily at night. Every night.

Oh, but the Londoners were a plucky people. Instead of giving into despair, they bore the air raids, treating them like the weather. People refused to evacuate, sometimes only leaving when they didn’t have homes to return to. However, human nature being what it was, there were of course looting and taking advantage of the less fortunate. Organized crime and black market sales flourished. Not to mention the increased population of “working girls” in Soho.26

Nightly bombings took their toll on the city, and people worked diligently to put out fires, dig out survivors, and honor the dead. It became more difficult when they started dropping explosives and incendiaries. Oddly enough, many of the places that bombers frequently were aiming for: factories, power plants, and the like, received minor damage compared to the surrounding areas. 

During one of the few times Aziraphale met with Crowley to check in, the demon denied any such involvement. Aziraphale remained skeptical.

The end of the year brought one of the worst nights of bombing yet, and it set off a terrible city-wide fire, larger than the one in 1666. Aziraphale immediately did all he could to help, including ensuring that St. Paul’s Cathedral remained standing. Unfortunately, he couldn’t save the many publishing houses that went up in flames, and he would quietly mourn the loss of those books later. Small blessings were placed upon those he saw driving petrol trucks through the flames, as they ensured the water pumps kept working.* 

This all could have been much worse, if the follow-up attack the Germans had planned had happened. Aziraphale helped with the poor weather conditions that made them cancel that wave, while offering much needed rain to help douse fires. 

After witnessing the destruction, Aziraphale became even more determined to help however he could. When a woman by the name of Rose Montgomery entered his bookshop, asking for help with a plan to capture German spies, the angel jumped at the chance to help.27 He would be thwarting evil, after all.

26: You know, the ones who got paid to do things that Aziraphale was definitely not interested in.

27: He knew Crowley was doing some kind of spy-work, surely Aziraphale could, too.

*Interesting and true: Women mostly drove those fuel trucks to keep the water pumps running. Bad. Ass.

* * *

This blasted war had Crowley working harder than he expected. Sure, he didn’t have to leave London, but the city got bombed every night. Bloody hard to sleep through air raids, what with the sirens and the bombs going off. Working with MI6 was at least interesting. He could play both sides against each other to his own benefit. Even organized crime was used to his advantage. Crowley had an endless supply of evil to report Downstairs. 

It was May, and Crowley was planning to spend his time indoors. He had his own office and he’d even brought a small plant from his flat for his desk. While on his way for a cup of tea to hide the scotch he often added to his mug, the demon overheard a conversation. Typically, of course, that was bad form, especially considering he worked with spies and all, but he’d heard a couple of specific words. Those words were: “Rare books.” Not that he was all that interested in books, but he did know someone who had quite an extensive collection of rare books. 

Crowley took his time getting his tea and stopped back by the desk where he’d overheard about the books. “Anything interesting, Pearl?”

The young woman turned to him. “Oh. Mister Crowley! I’ve just received a bit of intelligence that German operatives are looking for religious artifacts and rare books of prophecy.”

Knowing Aziraphale had several signed first editions, Crowley asked her to continue. 

“Well, they’re trying to find collectors that would have those kinds of items, and killing them after they get what they want.”

Oh. That could be bad, actually. Even though the angel had a tendency to get in trouble, he had managed to avoid getting discorporated the entire time Crowley had known him. Aziraphale said the paperwork was too much trouble, and Heaven was slow in reissuing new corporations. Not to mention discorporation could be unpleasant, depending on the circumstances. Crowley would just have to keep an eye on the bookshop then, wouldn’t he?

The next day, Crowley took a covert stroll by the shop, and found Aziraphale safe for the moment. He had an appointment with some black-market goods, so he would have to come by later. Later turned out to be after dark, and the shop was not only closed, but empty. Aziraphale rarely went out after dark, so Crowley slipped inside the shop.

Everything up front looked normal, so Crowley went to the back room. There, he found the angel’s desk uncharacteristically tidy. Everything else was a mess, book stacked up everywhere, but his desk actually had a clear space. There was a stubby length of thick twine and a list of book titles with checkmarks next to the ones Crowley knew Aziraphale owned. Dammit angel, it was too late. Where had he gone?

A quick scan of the desk revealed nothing that stood out, but as he stepped back, a pencil rolled underfoot. He picked it up, and looked the desk over again. There was an imprint in the paper the list was written on, like something had been written over top of it. Aziraphale had written something on another paper on top of this one. Crowley used a trick he’d learned long ago with charcoal and carvings, carefully rubbing the pencil against the paper. Along with a doodle of a church spire was:

> St. D. in E. 9 PM 

Church? Saint Dunstan in the East? He hoped he was right, and would have to hurry to make it in time to stop the angel. Out the door and into the Bentley, Crowley fled towards central London. He was used to driving without his headlights, so the blackout didn’t really bother him. Halfway there, he remembered some intel about how the East End was supposed to be bombed tonight. Perhaps a little demonic miracle was in order, as the church was close enough that a little diversion wouldn’t be overly obvious.

Parked haphazardly a block down from the church to shield the Bentley, he stepped onto the sidewalk and adjusted his hat. Right. 

As soon as he entered church grounds, he could feel it, the consecration. It didn’t hurt quite yet, but he could feel the intensity increase the closer he got to the building, like atmospheric pressure. Aziraphale was inside and still alive for now, that he could tell. But for how long? 

Crowley reached the steps leading up to the church. This was it. There were stories of demons who had been immolated by being dragged into a consecrated church. With a wave, he gave his shoes harder soles and thickened his socks. The Luftwaffe were coming, and he would have about two minutes to get things done. Under his breath he muttered, “I’m saving one of _yours_ over here,” took a deep breath, and opened the doors.

The church floor burned his feet, regardless of his shoes and socks. And it’s difficult to look suave and mysterious while you’re hopping from one foot to another. If it weren’t bad enough, he discovered they just kept holy water out in open fonts! Where anyone could get to it! 

And of course the angel acted completely ungrateful for him coming to the rescue. It would have hurt that Aziraphale accused him of working with the Nazis if he weren’t so focused on the pain of his feet. At least the Nazis recognized him. He’d get points in Hell for that. Too bad for them, they didn’t take the opportunity to run away. With the angel having acknowledged the warning about bombs and miracles, Crowley pointed above his head, the whistle of falling bombs getting louder.

* * *

As the dust from the explosion cleared, Crowley took off his shades to clean the lenses. Both he and Aziraphale were safe, the Nazis buried underneath the rubble. He’d made sure the satchel of books was spared as well. Air raid sirens and the distant cries of bombing victims filled the night. 

Aziraphale removed his hat and observed the destruction. “That was very kind of you.”

Kind. The last thing he needed was Hell hearing an angel calling him _kind_. “Shut up.” 

Crowley slipped his dark glasses back on. It had become as much a form of emotional armor as well as a way to hide his eyes over the centuries.

The angel kept insisting, “Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start.” He paused, and there was the realization. “Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot _all_ the books!” 

With the angel’s distress obvious, Crowley prepared to save the day. He walked over to where the satchel was still grasped in the hand of one very deceased Mr. Harmony. 

“Oh, they'll all be blown to—” The angel’s pitiful complaints died off when he spied the satchel.

“Little demonic miracle of my own.” It was all Crowley could do to hold back a smug expression, and pulled away when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush his on the satchel’s handle. “Lift home?” He turned away, and headed back toward the Bentley with as casual a gait as he could muster. 

He did not see the look Aziraphale gave him, but he did _feel_ something… like the eyes of the angel following him.28

28: Crowley had to force himself to not turn around and look back at Aziraphale, even though he desperately wanted to see just what kind of expression was on the angel’s face. 

* * *

In spite of just having come through a bombing without a scratch, Aziraphale felt like he had been nearly discorporated. So much had happened this evening, what with Miss Rose Montgomery actually being a Nazi spy and Crowley coming to the rescue. She was right, his eagerness to help made him gullible. Crowley would have never fallen for such a trick. 

But the books were safe, thanks to Crowley, who _had_ come to the rescue. Crowley. It _had_ been awfully kind of him. What reason could he have for not only protecting Aziraphale, but his books as well? He felt a familiar swelling in his chest, and all of a sudden, things fell into place. Love. Aziraphale felt love. He’d always known he loved the demon in some fashion, but this felt like _more_. Like being _in love._ And was it possible, could it be… Could Crowley love him back? 

He shook himself out of his daze, to see Crowley nearly out of sight in the gloom, dust, and rubble. His emotions would have to wait if he wanted to not have to walk back to Soho. The ride home was quiet in spite of Crowley’s reckless driving, and there was a tension that Aziraphale didn’t know how to disperse. Normally he would strike up a conversation, but he wasn’t sure what to say. 

Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop and turned to face him, one arm braced on the steering wheel. “Here we are, angel.”

“Right. Well.” Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to leave yet, but they have been avoiding socializing beyond their infrequent meetings at St. James’s. What could he say to convince him to come inside?

“I know you must be frightfully busy, but perhaps… if you wouldn’t mind… I have a lovely 1855 Bordeaux I’ve been meaning to try, and wouldn’t want to drink it alone.” Aziraphale lowered his eyes and held his breath, fingers tightening on the straps of the satchel.

Crowley made a considering noise, and the Bentley’s engine was silenced. “Wouldn’t want you drinking alone after an experience like that.” 

Aziraphale let out a breath.

“Yeah, I am done for the night. Reports can wait until morning.” Crowley opened his door and slithered out, leaving Aziraphale to stare dazedly at the dashboard and listen to the sound of the cooling engine.

His car door opened, and Crowley leaned down. “You coming?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” What was _wrong_ with him? Aziraphale got out, waved the shop door unlocked, and let Crowley in. With the blackout in effect they weren’t allowed lights, but Aziraphale could miracle the windows light-proof easily enough, and he lit several candelabras in the back room after he placed the satchel full of books on his desk. 

After locating the Bordeaux in question and a couple wine glasses, Aziraphale uncorked the bottle and poured them both generous glasses. He perched in his embroidered desk chair and Crowley settled on the leather sofa, hat tossed on a stack of books. 

One thing he couldn’t help but notice was how Crowley had seemed to be stepping gingerly. Was it possible his feet were still injured from his standing on consecrated ground? Not sure how to bring up the subject, Aziraphale decided a little liquid courage was in order.

Two glasses in, he noticed Crowley wince as he leaned forward for a refill. “My dear, how ever did you manage to bear the pain of consecrated ground? I’ve heard it could immolate demons with prolonged contact.”

Crowley leaned back and tilted his feet up on the heels of his shoes. “Guess I just have a strong constitution.”

Humming, Aziraphale took a large gulp of wine, then settled on his knees, reaching for Crowley's shoes. The demon jerked his feet back.

"What the he— in go— what are you doing?"

Aziraphale grasped one shoe firmly, and Crowley hissed. "You are obviously still in pain. Let me check your feet," the angel insisted.

Crowley grumbled, but allowed him to untie and carefully remove his shoes. As Aziraphale peeled down one thick sock, he could see the tender, inflamed red and blistered sole. He repeated the process, and stared at the damage done to both feet. 

"Oh dear. I am so sorry. Let me… I'll be right back."

Aziraphale kept an emergency kit as was his duty as a London citizen in war-time. While he had no need for a gas-mask, perhaps he could give it to someone if the need arose. He grabbed the medical kit, wash cloth, and a towel, then filled a basin with cold, fresh water before resettling back on the rug at Crowley's feet.

When Crowley tried to insist it wasn't necessary, Aziraphale tutted at him and insisted he remained seated, before gently lowering his feet into the basin. First the demon hissed, then relaxed with a sigh as the cool water drew out the heat of his burns. When the angel brushed the underside of one foot to with his fingers, Crowley jerked, making a choked noise, “Ngk!”

"Are you ticklish?" Aziraphale asked with delight. 

"No!" said Crowley defensively. My feet are sensitive from the burns is all."

"So you admit they hurt."

"I never said that! They're just sensitive to touch." Crowley pouted, and there was a slight blush on his cheeks. The sight caused Aziraphale's heart to do funny things in his chest.

"You should drink some more wine then, it will help dull the nerves."

As Aziraphale carefully rinsed Crowley’s feet and assessed damage, (mostly reddening and a few blisters) he glanced up occasionally, but it was difficult to see his expression behind those dark glasses. He encouraged Crowley to drink more wine. There was a sort of connotation to be had, of an angel washing someone’s feet. It was a symbol of humility and selfless love. He wondered if Crowley would pick up on that last bit. 

Feet washed, Aziraphale carefully dried them off with the towel, then began swabbing antiseptic and salve on the reddened skin and blisters. He still had questions, and braved asking.

“How did you know to look for me?” He kept his head low, focused on his task as he waited for an answer.

“I overheard about some blokes getting conned out of their antiquities by Nazis is all. Put two and two together, seeing as you have probably the best collection of old books anywhere.” Crowley was relaxing deeper into the sofa.

“But how did you know I would be at that church?”

Crowley mentioned finding the list, and the impression left on the paper. So very clever. Perhaps that’s why he was the spy, and Aziraphale merely tended his shop. 

The angel tenderly applied dressings and bandages, making sure everything was firmly in place before rolling on some fresh socks. They weren’t dark like what Crowley usually wore, but they were a soft grey wool. He rested Crowley’s feet in his hands and gazed up at him, his slicked back hair coming loose in curls along his forehead. 

Aziraphale really did love this demon - _fallen angel_ \- in spite of everything. And impossibly, Crowley cared for him. He wouldn’t dare call it love. Love to a demon was a cursed four letter word. Could Crowley ever truly love? Aziraphale wondered if what he’d felt at the site of the ruined church was just his own love reflected back at him. No, there was at the very least genuine affection. Crowley’s actions tonight spoke volumes.

Having placed Crowley’s socked feet carefully on a cushion, Aziraphale packed away the supplies, then stood up to dispose of the used wrappings and dump out the water. Not to mention hide the blush he’d felt rising on his cheeks. Oh, what was he to do? 

When he had composed himself and joined Crowley, they each had one more glass of wine before Crowley announced it was time to depart. Aziraphale fussed over him some more, which the demon carelessly waved away. 

Dare he notice a new softness around Crowley’s mouth? No, best to not think of such things. 

With his shoes once more on his feet, Crowley stepped out the shop’s entrance and bade Aziraphale good evening. Aziraphale stood at his door until he could no longer hear the Bentley’s engine.

That night was one of the last of the major bombings for the Blitz, and while there would be air raids after that, England got a mild reprieve in this long war. 

Aziraphale, fresh on the realizations of that night, decided to keep things as they were between him and Crowley. Yes, he loved Crowley dearly, and at the very least Crowley felt deep affection for him. But what was to come of it? They were still sworn enemies. The thought of what Hell’s forces would do to Crowley if they ever found out… This went well beyond a mere arrangement. Aziraphale would protect them both, remain professional. He _had_ to.

* * *

Crowley never returned Aziraphale’s socks. He kept them in a drawer by his bed, and would wear them on cold nights, and think of Aziraphale touching his feet oh so tenderly. He was a fool. Went and did the one thing demons weren’t supposed to be capable of, and for an angel. The one being he could never actually have. Not without making Aziraphale Fall first. And he would be twice damned before he let that happen. 

He would just have to bury everything down deep, and keep on as they have been, limited contact and all. It was safer for both of them. Although he couldn’t deny the hurt when the angel seemed to also want to keep his distance. 

The second world war continued to rage, and at times Crowley wondered how there could be a “good” side to all of this, especially when Germany used the opponents of Allied forces against them. Take the British Empire, for instance. Britain should have learned her lesson from Rome, but oh well. He wondered if there would be a British Empire after this was all said and done. 

However, the more he learned about what the Third Reich had been doing to “non Germans” and “undesirables” was barbaric. Even by Hell’s standards.

He kept busy helping recruit new spies, and got to know Ian Fleming quite well.29 Thanks to Crowley’s special abilities, he also took a turn or three in female form for the cause. Besides, he liked the skirts and stockings, even though he often had to miracle his hair into place.

29: Yes, _that_ Ian Fleming, the one responsible for James Bond. There’s a reason Crowley will later become a huge fan of the character.

A/N: I HAD to cut WW2 short, because there was TOO MUCH STUFF to talk about. Sorry! I lived in this chapter for too long!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really got stuck way too long in 1941, this is the chapter I was still working on when I started posting.
> 
> Thanks to all you wonderful readers sticking with this story, and all the lovely comments!
> 
> Next up, anyone want to steal some holy water from a church?


	9. To Know You Are Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-WW2, up through the late 70's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another installment of two immortal creatures pining for each other like idiots, and everything that happens in between.  
> It's always interesting trying to include canon scenes without copy-pasting the original lines, which usually means the scenes themselves are shortened. But I hope you enjoy my take on what got them there in the meantime.

And oh, the towering feeling just to know somehow you are near  
The overpowering feeling that any second you may suddenly appear

_On the Street Where You Live - Vic Damone/My Fair Lady_

* * *

As World War Two slowly came to a close throughout 1945 with the retreat of German forces, human spirits lifted. However the war had taken its toll on a certain angel and demon. As Aziraphale learned of the human suffering that had been happening in concentration and execution camps, he was distraught. If Crowley had been in any mood to try, he would have found the angel inconsolable. 

But the demon had his own dark thoughts, as he had seen the photographs and first-hand reports. The war had left him quiet and withdrawn. All the bombing and death, regardless of which side, was too much. All those earlier punishments from God could not compare to what humans could do to themselves. And Crowley has _seen some shit._

The following years were quiet for the both of them, albeit lonely, since they both felt they were protecting the other. Crowley continued to take credit for things he had no hand in, like the start of the Cold War, and the subsequent nuclear scares that resulted from it.

* * *

In 1951, Aziraphale convinced Crowley to attend some of the events related to the Festival of Britain. All summer long, there were installations with different features, along with arts festivals throughout. The South Bank installation construction was visible from St. James’s park, and if one happened to find himself near the river Thames after dark, he could see the nearly 90 metre tall Skylon lit up. What got Crowley’s attention was the Battersea Pleasure Gardens.

They decided to visit the exhibition in Battersea on a cool, sunny day in August. Both beings found the whole thing rather crowded, but Aziraphale enjoyed tasting all the different food, and Crowley took notes of the plants in the gardens, his green thumb a point of pride even if hardly anyone ever saw his indoor garden. During the whole outing, they made sure to keep a bubble of distance between themselves, avoiding touch unless necessary. It was altogether pleasant to be in each other’s company nonetheless. At the end of the day, Aziraphale asked if Crowley would like to attend any of the other festival installations.

What he didn’t tell Crowley was that he had already visited the South Bank exhibition, and hoped to get the demon’s opinion on some of the wines he’d found. Crowley declined with the excuse of crowds being rather draining, and neglected to mention _he_ had already visited the architecture exhibition in Poplar. Aziraphale abandoned his thoughts of inviting Crowley to the Regency Festival in Brighton.

Crowley dropped Aziraphale off at his front door after a harrowing, too-fast drive along London’s busy streets. That evening, neither knew the other was busy mentally replaying their moments together with fondness. 

The next year, come December, the fifth dawned cold, clear, and still. Throughout the day however, a thick fog accumulated which quickly turned into a yellow-black acidic soup that would last for days and kill thousands. Crowley slept through the entire event to avoid becoming restless. Aziraphale stayed indoors and had to miracle the air in his bookshop clean to keep the sulphurous mist from getting to his books. He might have performed another minor miracle to dissipate the weather event that brought the city to a standstill and steeped the city in pollution for five whole days. 

Years passed, a new queen was coronated, and humanity did what they have done for millennia, just increasingly faster. 

Aziraphale never hired a new clerk after the war. He started keeping irregular hours, and ordered fewer new editions to sell. While he was still a known, friendly face among his neighbors, he fell even further behind humanity's trends and became somewhat of a legendary creature to the local youth.30

30: The term “cryptid” would not be coined until 1983, but the youth of Soho would have referred to Aziraphale as one if the word had existed at the time.

* * *

Crowley got into music and skirted the film industry, and spent much of his time hanging around studios. He had learned the piano centuries ago, and would occasionally play at the keys during a jazz recording or two. When Skiffle* swept the interest of London’s youth, he went with it. It was a genre for the rebellious, and it would be remiss for the demon to not encourage a little rebellion.31

Beat culture, early rock n’ roll, Crowley thrived in this environment. If there was a promising band that he found playing in a club, he found a recording studio for them. It didn’t matter if it was nothing more than a closet in someone’s flat. As long as they could get recorded and out there. He took it as a personal mission to expose as many young people to the highs (and lows) of stardom as possible. Those who made it big would deal with the temptations that celebrity had to offer. 

He was in the thick of the music industry in the 1960’s, at parties, influencing and whispering. After watching Cliff Richard rise to stardom in the UK, Crowley was determined to find someone who could break into the U.S. market. During a party, Crowley overheard someone trying to get a recording contract with a Liverpool band. When he was able to slither into the conversation, Crowley directed Brian Epstein on how to garner some attention with EMI. Crowley was invited to Abbey Road in June of 1962 to help record that band. 

The drummer for The Beatles was kind of rubbish, but drummers could be replaced. Brian was convinced these boys could make it internationally, so Crowley might have given a little push here and there in 1963 to make it happen and encouraged Brian to push for a US campaign for The Beatles.

Crowley went on to influence the British music industry throughout the sixties. While he wasn’t personally responsible for every band that took part in the British Invasion, he did get to claim responsibility for the movement (and the band name The Kinks32). Down Below was thrilled.

Not all of the sixties were parties and celebrity-making for Crowley. Ever since he saw that holy water font in 1941, he’d been thinking about how to get some for himself. And yes, it took over twenty years to come up with a plan. It wasn’t like it was a pressing matter, especially since he and Aziraphale were avoiding spending much time with each other, possibly for the same reasons. Sure, Crowley wanted more from their relationship, but he wasn’t suicidal.

There’s a reason Soho has developed into such an eclectic melting-pot. Over the past few decades it had developed a reputation as a place for outsiders of all kinds, including nationality, frame of mind, artistic bent, and sexuality. The reason was in part due to Aziraphale’s angelic presence; another part was that Crowley spent more time in Soho than he would ever admit. 

While he and Aziraphale couldn’t risk being seen together, that didn’t mean they couldn’t sense when the other was nearby. Overall, Crowley encouraged what society would call “deviancy” while Aziraphale has given refuge. 

It’s to Soho Crowley had gone in search of partners in crime for a church heist. He’d left details vague, leaving those interested in thinking they were going to nab artwork or priceless artifacts, while weeding out those adverse to stealing from a house of God. 

Why such an elaborate job? Temptation. He could easily have paid someone to go and collect a flask of water from a church’s font, but that would be boring. Instead, his plot involved multiple culprits, who willingly partook in an illicit act, thus staining their souls. It would make for an excellent report Downstairs. 

31: So many famous Rock musicians having gotten their musical starts in Skiffle would not be a coincidence. 

32: Don’t let Wikipedia fool you, Crowley was the “friend” of Robert Wace who suggested the name. **

*Skiffle: Music genre, once popular in the US in the 1920’s, popular among UK youth in the 1950’s.

** He was also the inspiration for “Tired of Waiting For You” by The Kinks, but he didn’t like to admit they might have overheard him complain about his love life (or lack thereof) in the studio.

* * *

Aziraphale was out at the street market when he heard the first whispers of Crowley’s caper. He was enjoying a delicious pastry near the food stalls and overheard someone discussing the need for a locksman. While the legitimate need for one was common, one didn’t usually discuss it in furtive tones or offer exorbitant amounts of money for one in a noisy street market. He became even more alarmed when he learned it was for a church. 

It somehow did not surprise Aziraphale when he found out who was soliciting help for a church break-in. And he knew exactly what Crowley was looking for. He had hoped the matter from 1862 had been forgotten, although he should have known better after Crowley’s comment that one fateful night in 1941. It seemed that the foolish demon was willing to acquire his holy water no matter what. The least he could do was thwart his efforts to tarnish other souls in the process. 

Having learned where Crowley was to meet his crew to coordinate before the heist, Aziraphale blessed a thermos full of water and posted himself near the Thirsty Donkey. He spotted the Bentley, parked and empty outside, and waited, looking very much like some of the other men furtively making their way into various dens of iniquity in the area. Crowley emerged from the club and had a conversation with another man before getting into the car. Aziraphale made his move and appeared in the passenger seat.

Oh, but how the exchange of his best thermos full of blessed water made him anxious. All he could do was plead and hope that Crowley would not use it on himself. A few more words, filled with hope, for picnics and dining at the Ritz. He needed to go. Any longer and he would lose the resolve he’d built up. 

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” Crowley’s tone was so soft, and Aziraphale felt himself weaken. He had already stayed in the car too long. 

Looking the demon he loved in the eye, Aziraphale said, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” 

And with a trembling breath, he exited the Bentley. Standing at the side of the road, he observed Crowley take a moment, set down the thermos, and then drive off. Aziraphale watched him go, oblivious to passersby, the neon lights flashing overhead, and he prayed for Crowley’s safety as the car disappeared out of sight and the demon’s presence got further away. He fidgeted with his tartan cravat before walking back to the book shop, hoping he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

* * *

Crowley fled Soho as fast as the crowded streets would allow; he was confused and needed to clear his head. He went too fast? Picnics? The Ritz? Holy water, sitting in a tartan thermos next to him, most likely blessed by Aziraphale himself. What did it all mean? Spiraling further away from Soho, Crowley spent the rest of the night driving the Bentley, sorting out his thoughts. He still wasn’t sure if Aziraphale meant he _drove_ too fast and didn’t want a ride from him, or if he meant it in a _relationship_ sense. Or maybe both?

Eventually, Crowley would stop cruising the roads circling London, but the confusion would remain.

In the late sixties throughout the seventies, Crowley would remain involved with the music and film industries, but more in the background, rubbing elbows at parties and giving input at the occasional recording session. If someone needed to procure or do something less-than-legal, Crowley knew who to contact. His black book was fat with contacts, and nobody but he could read it, since it was written in a long-dead language.

One morning, while enjoying a coffee and perusing the news, something caught his eye. There was an article about the new M25 motorway, and they had included a drawing of the proposed routes for the outer ring. He could swear he’d seen that shape somewhere. After finishing his coffee, Crowley nicked the paper and headed back to his flat. He would always claim in public that he didn’t read books, but he had a small stash that Aziraphale would salivate over if he ever got his nose in Crowley’s library. There were also some cursed texts he kept for safe-keeping. 

It was in one of those dark tomes he found what looked so familiar. The sigil Odegra, of the ancient Mu black priesthood. Oh, but the creative wheels were spinning. The shape wasn’t exact, but with a little tinkering… This could be his magnum opus, something so permanently evil but seemingly innocuous to mortals, that Downstairs would leave him alone to his own devices from here to Armageddon.

More work than he had ever done for a single endeavor went into this project, but Crowley intended to see it through, if it meant he could have at least a decade or so of laziness afterwards. Maybe he could get away with another extra-long nap. 

Computers were still new, but he was able to hack the few the London Council used to change land rights and alter reports. He had to bribe some landowners to allow the motorway to cut through fields, and grease the palms of a few officials to look the other way when the path Crowley had planned was less efficient than the original route. He’d even broken into official records rooms to alter land maps. So committed to the endeavor was Crowley, that he even spent a couple hours one night in the mud, moving marker pegs just so.

His efforts were met with very little enthusiasm when he’d insisted on a meeting to explain his genius. Duke Hastur had even asked what a computer was. Fourteenth century minds, the lot of them. But when the M25 outer ringways officially opened in 1986, they would see. They would _all see._

Through all this, Aziraphale had been conspicuously silent and absent, and Crowley wondered if the angel had written him off after the incident with the flask and _‘you go too fast for me, Crowley.’_ Too fast. He still wondered sometimes late at night what the angel meant. But he wouldn’t show his ignorance in asking. In fact, to show Crowley wasn’t too fast, he might sleep for a whole fortnight. After setting an alarm, of course.

* * *

After delivering the flask, Aziraphale had become curious about the church that had gotten bombed twenty five years ago and discovered its ruins were still standing, barely touched. But after some gentle nudges, he couldn’t even bother to call them miracles, the City of London purchased the property. They would turn it into a beautiful garden. 

Aziraphale was pleased. Even though the land was no longer fully consecrated, the thousand years of history as a place of worship gave the whole place an air of ineffability. It was a pleasant feeling, and decades later St. Dunstan in the East would continue to be a refuge in the midst of a bustling city.

Also in 1967, ten years after the Wolfenden Report,* they decriminalized adult homosexuality in England and Wales. There were still hurdles, but it was a start. 

(For a celestial being, there are differences between law and sin. Something being illegal may lead someone to believe they are committing a sin, which can stain a soul out of misplaced guilt. It is interesting to note this does not quite work in reverse, as a person can absolutely commit sin while rationalizing the whole thing to themselves. But let us continue our story, as wiser souls than the Author have written much about the subject.)

While humanity had its faults, Aziraphale was fascinated by what they could accomplish. They made it to the moon! They protested war with peace and love. Not to mention all the technological advances. He remembered the old analogue computers and automatons, and then the electronic ones, that used to take up whole buildings. It was fascinating how they kept managing to make technology smaller.

As the years progressed, Aziraphale knew Crowley was around, but they rarely met. Even though Aziraphale knew it was for the best, he still missed the demon and it was all Aziraphale could do to keep from reaching out. No, it was best if he waited for Crowley to seek him out. Unless, of course, there was trouble brewing. Speaking of, Crowley had become embroiled in some new project. 

It wasn’t the music, which Aziraphale knew about and left the demon to his business, simply because the angel had no interest in modern music. No, this was something that didn’t involve parties. It was secret, and Aziraphale began to fret as Crowley’s activities seemed to consume him. Throughout the seventies, Aziraphale hoped he wasn’t causing too much trouble. But Crowley, while wily, enjoyed showing off a new project, and would eventually tell Azirpahale what he’d been up to. He hoped.

Some time in late summer 1979, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed any movement from Crowley in over a week. He wasn’t out of town, the angel could sense that much. But Crowley had not done anything in days. Having Crowley’s telephone number, Aziraphale tried to ring him, but there was no answer. Worried, he went to Crowley’s Mayfair flat, just to check up on him, of course. 

He knew where Crowley lived, in spite of never being invited. The demon had a tendency to change buildings every couple decades to avoid suspicion. It seemed silly in Aziraphale’s opinion, since Crowley always chose somewhere in Mayfair. 

At the building’s front door, Aziraphale cheerfully convinced the doorman to let him in, and a short elevator ride deposited Aziraphale on Crowley’s level. It didn’t escape his notice that Crowley had a tendency to choose the top floors of buildings. Just another reason that kept Aziraphale hopeful, as Crowley wasn’t a demon who wallowed entirely in his demonic nature.33

Aziraphale knocked on Crowley’s door, but there was no answer. After a few more tries, more worried than before, he let himself in. It was quiet, but not deathly so, and Aziraphale let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stepped past the entryway, calling Crowley’s name, and was greeted by the sight of angular, uncomfortable-looking but supposedly stylish furniture, and potted plants. So many verdant, beautiful plants. He knew Crowley had an affinity for them, but it was like an indoor garden. 

They looked well taken care of, so that was a good sign. 

Calling out once more, Aziraphale peeked through a kitchen doorway, then located the bedroom to find Crowley fast asleep, curtains drawn to keep out sunlight, and dark satin sheets crumpled around the demon. Something eased in his chest at the sight and sound of Crowley’s steady breathing. Now that he knew nothing was amiss, perhaps he should just let himself out and pretend he was never here? 

Except as he tried closing the bedroom door, the hinge squeaked slightly, and Crowley stirred. Oh, no. Softly, Aziraphale said, “Crowley?”

There was a “Hmph,” some more shifting, and a hand appeared to run through mussed red hair. A muffled, “Azssirphl? Wassgoinon?” accompanied one open yellow eye.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “So sorry to disturb you Crowley, but I tried calling, and you didn’t answer the door, so…” He shifted on his feet.

“Hmnghhugh…” Crowley rolled over and wiped both hands across his face. “M’jusssleepin.”

“Yes, well. I’ll just be on my way then, Sorry again to disturb you.” Aziraphale quickly turned on his heel and escaped down the hall and out the front door without another word, making sure to lock it back behind himself.

Once back in his book shop, Aziraphale kept it closed and wallowed in his embarrassment in the privacy of his back room.

*The Report of the Departmental Committee on Homosexual Offences and Prostitution (better known as the Wolfenden report, after Lord Wolfenden) was published. It advised the British Government that homosexuality should be made legal.

33: Crowley would say he just didn’t like hearing people above him. Maybe it’s a little of both.

* * *

Crowley sat up in bed and blinked his eyes slowly, trying to think properly. Was Aziraphale just in his flat a moment ago? Yep, his bedroom door was still open, and he knew he’d closed it when he went to sleep, because of the sunlight. As he became more awake, Crowley remembered the angel mentioning something about trying to call first. Huh. Shit, he hadn’t overslept again, had he? 

After managing to make his legs work properly, Crowley went to his office and called the Speaking Clock.34 He hadn’t slept for a full two weeks, but it had been more than one. There was no point in trying to sleep the next couple of days and risk oversleeping. He needed to check on the construction of the M25, anyway. 

Looking down at his avocado green phone, Crowley considered hooking up his Ansafone. He’d bought it because it was new and interesting, but the thing had been sitting in its box because until now he hadn’t seen a point in using it. Only Aziraphale had his number, after all. 

Later, after his plants had been sufficiently misted and threatened, and the sun had gone down, Crowley phoned Aziraphale. He’d stopped counting rings and was prepared to hang up when he heard the connecting click and Aziraphale’s voice saying, “Hello?”

“Aziraphale! Crowley here. You left before I could wake up all the way. Is something the matter?” He tried to act nonchalant, even though Aziraphale essentially breaking into his home had to have been due to something drastic.

There was a prolonged silence on the other end, and then Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, about that…” He’s quiet for another moment, and then, “I am terribly sorry. Perhaps it was just me being overly paranoid, but I hadn’t noticed you around like usual, and like I said before, you wouldn’t pick up or answer your door, so I guess I just sort of… panicked.”

Crowley’s breath caught and something in the area of his chest tried to start fluttering. He mentally berated his body into behaving before replying, “Angel, I didn’t know you cared. Should I give you my letterman jacket now?”

The spluttering on the other end of the line was worth the veiled sarcasm and he couldn’t help but grin. “Tell you what. I’m going to install an ansaphone, so you can leave me a message the next time you feel ‘paranoid’ all right, Aziraphale?”

“A what?”

“Ansaphone. If I don’t pick up, it does and you can leave a message. Brilliant device. Been around in some form or another for a couple of decades, but cassette tapes made them more convenient.” 

There was a pause and when Aziraphale didn’t speak, Crowley continued, “Are you still feeling paranoid, angel, or did your little tour of my flat appease your curiosity?”

He heard Aziraphale huff. “Yes, I am glad you are safe, and not discorporated or… melted, or… or, whatever. Do try to enjoy the rest of your evening, Crowley.”

“Good night, Aziraphale.” 

Hanging up the phone, Crowley stood at his desk and stared out the window at the darkened city. Contemplated throwing himself out of said window. Aziraphale _cared._ About _him._ A _demon._ Of course he knew that Aziraphale cared, but to have confirmation like that, to have him willing to angelically force his way into Crowley’s home just to check…

Whatever had previously tried to take flight in his chest was now swelling like a balloon. It was accompanied by this interminable sense of longing that willpower just wouldn’t squash. He was a helpless fool. Pulling away from his desk, Crowley decided tonight’s activities would include drunkenly installing an ansaphone.

34: The Speaking Clock in the UK doesn’t (or didn’t) give the date, but in the interest of my story, I wanted Crowley to have an accurate time and date system, so… *tweaks*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fills fic with all the headcanons*
> 
> This posting has gotten me caught up with what has been currently written. I may skip next week to get a little ahead, since my writing has slowed in recent weeks. But don't you fret, this will be finished!
> 
> Next time, expect some more book and TV mashups, as I explain away the time discrepancies between them, or: why the apocalypse happened thirty years later.


	10. All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fly-by through the 80's and 90's, how Heaven and Hell reacted to the Antichrist not arriving when he was supposed to, and a rewritten BT Tower scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of back and forth with the perspective shift, so there are softer breaks in this one.
> 
> Expect some edits in this chapter later, I'm not satisfied.
> 
> I'm late for Fanfic Friday, but I'm doing my best. 10/5/2019

Oh no, I can't slow down, I can't hold back  
Though you know, I wish I could

_Ain't No Rest For The Wicked - Cage The Elephant_

* * *

With the rollover to a new decade came increased activity in both Heaven and Hell. Both Higher ups and Lower downs awaited the arrival of the Antichrist, which would signal the beginning of The End. 

Aziraphale tried to ignore it all, while Crowley tried to enjoy ans much of humanity as he could while he had the chance.

Aziraphale kept on as he always had, with his books and wine and tasty treats. By now, he had given up on the facade of running the shop to turn a profit. His hours were erratic, entirely based on his whims, and had thought his posted opening hours were clever. At least the notice on his door made Crowley laugh, which might not be a good thing actually, but at this point, Aziraphale was past caring about it. 

One should note that Aziraphale was _trying_ to ignore the impending apocalypse. He didn’t want to think of the implications, or how much more time he had left on Earth. Or what it meant for the relationship between him and Crowley. No more compromises, no more Arrangement, no more ‘Aziraphale and Crowley’. They would be firmly on opposite sides, and Hell would lose, naturally. What would happen to all the demons? If what was going to happen to Earth was any indication… But no, he didn’t want to think about any of that, so he kept his head down. Read his books. Discouraged pesky customers. And drank hot cocoa in the comfort of his back room.

Crowley on the other hand, was determined to squeeze every last drop of worldly enjoyment he could manage. The M25, nearly completed, required little of his attention, so he delved back into the entertainment industry. Disco gave way to pop, and hard rock evolved. Enterprising Americans took music videos and made a whole television channel dedicated to them. Naturally, Crowley took credit, as he had been involved in the development of music videos as entertainment, an evolution of musical films. Sex, drugs, and Rock and Roll was the order of the day, and Crowley revelled in it, although he saw little personal interest in the sex or most of the drugs. He also wore a lot of leather. 

If one were to pay attention to human affairs, it would seem that the world was truly headed for the End Times. Everyone was afraid of nuclear war, while War continued to do her thing the old fashioned way; Famine had managed to turn his trade into a fashion statement, Pollution enjoyed modern chemistry and poking holes in the ozone layer, and Pestilence, while retired, still gave humanity the occasional new gift. Death did what Death had always done, and reaped. 

1985 came and went, with no Antichrist. By all calculations, that year should have been the start of everything. But Downstairs couldn’t ask their Lord, who had decided to take a prolonged nap. One did not just awaken Satan without a good reason. Perhaps the calculations were wrong, and they needed to wait another eleven years? 

Heaven was upset about the whole mess and the Archangels grumbled about Hell’s mismanagement. This would be the first time that agents within Heaven and Hell (other than Aziraphale and Crowley, of course) would reach out to each other to share information. 

With each year that passed over the next eleven years, the tension increased for Aziraphale and Crowley. Their few meetings were mostly fraught whispers as they waited for something to happen. Crowley wasn’t even able to properly enjoy the opening of the M25, as infernal forces had other things to worry about, like the delayed armageddon. With Crowley’s encouragement to keep up with technology, Aziraphale purchased a cheap Amstrad computer to better keep track of his accounts, for something to do while they all waited for something to happen. 

Ever since the introduction of the car stereo, Crowley had enjoyed music in his Bentley. However, while waiting for Armageddon to start, Crowley had noticed some rather odd behavior from his car.35 The Bentley had taken to turning all tapes left inside of it to Queen. When car CD players became available, Crowley upgraded, and the Bentley’s obsession with Queen continued, as any CD left in it would turn to Queen by the end of two weeks. If he didn’t know any better, Crowley was beginning to think the car had somehow become haunted by the ghost of Freddie Mercury. Which didn’t make sense, as Crowley had only met the man a handful of times, and Mercury had never sat inside the Bentley itself. 

As the earth continued spinning through the passing of marked time from 1996 to 1997, humanity celebrated. Crowley and Aziraphale decided one evening in each other’s presence couldn’t hurt, and watched the revelry from the book shop. 

“What happens now?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don’t know,” Crowley replied. 

Some theorized the timing of the prophecies were off, while others considered the idea that the dates weren’t meant to be exact. After all, what was a decade or two in the overall grand scheme, after six thousand years? All they could do was wait.

35: More odd than the lack of need for petrol, or the upgrade from the ‘26 to the ‘33 model, or its ability to go faster and maneuver better than ever designed, and even drive itself on occasion.

* * *

Having decided that he’d spent enough time waiting for something to happen, Crowley spent some time overseas. He visited the United States and toured the country from New York to Hollywood. For a land that invoked God on their currency, they had done an admirable job of practicing corruption. Overall, it was more like a vacation than anything, even though Crowley kept sending reports Downstairs. 

Spending time in Hollywood was tricky, as he knew many of the big names in the industry. Take for instance, David Bowie. Crowley had met him in the Seventies at various parties and had sat in on a recording session or two. He explained that the man David had met in the seventies was his uncle. Bowie was remixing a track with American musician Trent Reznor, and Crowley found himself drawn to the man’s talent and style.36 Not one to limit himself, Crowley might have influenced the film industry as well, and to this day will neither confirm nor deny his involvement with the conception of the 1999 film, Dogma.

36: Reznor’s music resonated with Crowley’s own self-loathing.

* * *

During Crowley’s absence, Aziraphale fretted. God had been silent for thousands of years, so they certainly weren’t going to get any answers there. Would it be too much to ask to have Satan stay asleep for at least a hundred years? Oh, but by then, humanity might accomplish what Heaven and Hell were waiting to do. Yes, there had been some major advancements regarding peace, but there was always some new trouble around the corner. 

Taking Crowley’s lead, the next time Aziraphale closed the shop in order to do his regular ruse of pretending to inherit it from himself, he spent some time in Japan. There were plenty of bright lights and modernization right next to tradition and history, and Aziraphale was fascinated. He’d last visited centuries ago, and it was interesting to see what had changed, and what had remained the same. The Western popularization of sushi had prompted the trip. When Aziraphale returned home, it was with a good stock of sake and some vintage kimonos.

* * *

As the world population reached six billion, Crowley returned home and moved into a new flat. Where his previous one was all clean white walls and modern electronics, the new flat had a more industrial influence, with grey concrete and architectural angles. He reintroduced some old favorite pieces that would have been out of place in the previous stark environment. 

Down Below had taken to pretending that everything was normal, so in spite of all his bad works and the neverending prayer wheel of evil that was the M25, Crowley still had to work. He specialized in modern inconveniences. While gluing coins to the pavement was an old favorite, he expanded his repertoire to gumming up the cash receptacles on vending machines and ensuring that credit card machines would never swipe right on the first couple tries.

After his return it seemed easier to keep his distance from Aziraphale, as if the physical distance had tempered their emotional connection. It made his longing for the angel more bearable. The same was true for Aziraphale, who tried his best to pretend his feelings for Crowley didn’t exist. 

* * *

In 2007, Crowley was the first in London to get his hands on the new Apple iPhone. It didn’t matter that the device wasn’t actually for sale in the UK yet that summer, but it seemed appropriate that he should have a smart phone released by a company named Apple. It didn’t matter that the American device wasn’t technically compatible with London’s mobile towers, he expected it to work, and so it did.37

At 7:30, on a day in late August, in the depths of London among tall towers, twilight came early. Most people had left their offices; meanwhile, one was just getting started. In his impeccable suit and dark sunglasses, Crowley got out of the Bentley parked at the curb near the BT Tower building. He placed a clipboard and thermos on top of the car, gave a look around, and donned a donkey jacket with day-glow orange panels, and a lanyard with an attached card identifying him with Rataway Pest Control. His hair was just long enough to get caught under the collar and he swept it out of the way, glancing at his reflection in the Bentley’s windows before he gathered the thermos and clipboard and walked towards the building’s entrance.

In the lobby, Crowley sauntered up to the security desk where a guard was doing a crossword. She looked bored, so Crowley put on an affectation of boredom as he leaned against the desk to get her attention. 

“Rataway pest control.”

She glanced up from her paper. “I thought your lot weren’t due until tomorrow morning.”

Crowley shrugged. “Preliminary inspection, traps go down tomorrow. My job’s to tell them where to put everything.”

With a sigh, she dropped her paper and stood. “I’ll take you up there.” 

She led him to the elevator. “Don’t touch anything you don’t have to. Lot of important stuff, that floor. Mobile phone services, that sort of thing.”

He followed her to the elevator and acted like there was somewhere else he’d rather be. It wasn’t very difficult. The thing about humans, they love to tell you their woes if given half a chance. This security guard was no different.

“It’s terrifying. I put down a tuna sandwich yesterday, never saw it again. Health and safety closed off the top floors as a health hazard until you lot get here.”

Crowley nodded in false sympathy. “We’ll soon see them off.” 

Numbers ticked by as they ascended the tower to their destination. The security guard looked sideways at Crowley. Another thing about humans, they’re incredibly nosey. “What’s with the sunglasses?”

Self-consciously, Crowley pushed his shades into place with a finger. “It’s my eyes.”

Thankfully, they had reached the top of the tower, so the security guard couldn’t pry much more. Crowley nodded at her as he exited the elevator onto the floor with dimmed lighting and no people. With a shudder, the security guard pressed the close door button until the doors did just that. 

Alone, Crowley removed his shades, looked around with his yellow eyes, and heard the sound of scratching. His night vision was as excellent as ever, and all around him swarmed rats. While they surrounded him, Crowley tucked the clipboard under his arm, unscrewed the thermos, poured himself a cup of tea, and smiled. 

“Beautiful job! Thank you all so much, men!” There was an angry rat chirp. “And, yes, obviously, ladies too. Nice job! You can all go home. And, yeah, stay cool.”

He took his tea into a room filled with wiring, computers, and other important-looking but aged equipment. That’s the problem with these old buildings. People were always having to retrofit modern technology onto the old. After tracing some cables with his eyes, Crowley upended his cup of tea into something important looking with flashing lights. Then he poured out the rest of the thermos on top of all that. Lights flickered and there were pops and sizzles. Screwing the lid back on the empty thermos, Crowley walked back to the elevator doors and pressed the call button, sliding his sunglasses back into place. 

The whole ride back down, Crowley rocked on his heels and whistled a tune. Eventually, he reached the lobby and the doors opened. He exited and leisurely made his way toward the exit. The security guard was back at her desk and noticed him.

“That was quick.”

He flapped his hand. “Left something back in the van.”

As he walked back to the Bentley, Crowley tossed the ugly donkey jacket onto a fence; the chaos was just starting as the phone calls of those around him were interrupted. He smiled at the sight and sound of a job well done. When he saw the Bentley gleaming in the twilight, his smile widened. Until he saw the note. Under the windscreen wiper was a ragged piece of old, browned paper. Frowning in confusion, he pulled it free, unfolded it, and read. It was instructions from Duke Hastur to meet in the graveyard of a church out in the Chilterns. He glanced at his watch. Great, and he’ll be late. All mirth gone, he crumpled the note and tossed it into the gutter. 

With a frown, he squealed tires as he sped his way out of London. Once on the A40, Crowley dug around in his CDs until he found one he hoped still played what was on the label. It said Mozart. But after he crammed it into the player, it played “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen. He had no idea that he was headed towards the beginning of the end.

37: Crowley’s expectations could not overcome an actual network outage, as he would discover about a month later when he tried to contact Aziraphale after delivering the Antichrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *projects myself all over Crowley in this chapter*  
> So... is anyone interested in my playlist of nothing but NIN songs, titled ["Crowley's Self-Hate Generator"](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0vhLzxDO6cD6VDdCxciQYP)?  
> I really liked the deleted BT Tower scene in the scriptbook, so I used this sad excuse of a chapter to rewrite it. *made the tiniest of edits to make the end of the scene more like what was filmed*
> 
> Expect me to take at least another week off, as I try to figure out how to iron out some date discrepancies, and formulate some Dowling-era fluff for our ineffable idiots.


	11. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley convinces Aziraphale to help thwart the Apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SCREAMS* Three months of Hell and one month of recovery, and I'm back! Sorry I made you guys wait so long, but when Real Life leaves you exhausted and you fall asleep on the couch more often than not, it's not conducive to writing.
> 
> This was meant to be both the New Agreement and the Dowling Era, but both sections got away from me. So I split the chapters instead of one.  
> I'm also using more show quotes in this than I like, but I’m not willing to cut anything else.

Who you gonna be if it’s over  
Sun goes dark and you don't know if  
This is the way it begins  
This is the apocalypse

_Apocalypse - Sleeperstar_

* * *

Aziraphale found his enjoyment of his sushi dampened somewhat with the appearance of Gabriel and his news. He even forewent his usual dessert of red bean mochi ice cream in favor of settling into the comfort of the bookshop. Before even hanging up his coat, Schubert’s “String Quartet in C Major” was selected and playing on his gramophone. 

However, Aziraphale wasn’t able to settle before his telephone was ringing. He paused. Made a face. After all, it was late. But the thing kept ringing, so he picked up the handset and answered, “I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed.”

A familiar voice said, “Aziraphale? It’s me. We need to talk.” Crowley.

“Yes. Yes, I rather think we do.” If Gabriel’s warning was any indication… “I assume this is about…”

“Armageddon. Yes.”

Before being able to ask any more, Crowley disconnected the call. Well. Aziraphale was used to the demon’s bluntness, but where and when were they to meet? Dialing Crowley’s number, he got Crowley’s ansaphone, and left a rather stern message. 

The next day, after managing to agree on a time, they met at St. James’s Park. Just before lunchtime, it was brimming with others also holding clandestine meetings and feeding the ducks. After finding an empty bench, they settled and discussed what had happened and what was to come. As usual, Crowley was infuriatingly pointed with his commentary, having sussed out what was in store for Aziraphale if Heaven won the war. The demon stood up and strolled off with a casual air after mentioning the lack of old book shops. It was a low blow that had Aziraphale shuffling after him. 

Once he was close enough to be heard with a normal voice, Aziraphale pleaded his case. “You know neither of us are allowed to disobey orders.” 

Crowley turned and walked backwards a few steps, never removing his hands from his pockets. “Really.”

“You know what I mean.” Aziraphale wrung his hands as they neared the stairs that led to the street, and Crowley’s car. 

It was getting more difficult for Crowley to play it cool. He HAD to convince Aziraphale to help him. “We’ve only got eleven years, then it’s all over. We have to work together.” Crowley couldn’t do this alone. 

Aziraphale dithered, and said, “No.” 

It was a crack in the angel’s armor, that little pause, and Crowley tried to pry it open further. They’d reached the top of the stairs and the Bentley was right there, with a parking boot and a traffic warden busily writing a ticket. 

“It’s the end of the world we’re talking about. Not some little temptation I’ve asked you to cover for me while you’re in Edinburgh for the festival. You can’t say no.” 

“No!” Aziraphale said with more emphasis. 

Crowley kept pushing as they walked. “We can do something, I have an idea.”

Aziraphale bowed up just past the gates to the park. “No! I am NOT interested.” He gestured a little pushing motion with his hands. He’d had enough of Crowley’s rebellion and turned to leave.

Desperate, Crowley tried the only trick he had left. “Well, let’s have lunch,” he called after the angel. “Hmm?” It made Aziraphale pause. He pressed on. “I still owe you one from…” He couldn’t remember actually, but he held his breath, hoping.

“Paris,” Aziraphale added with an edge, “1793.” 

“Yes. The reign of terror.” _Please work, please work, please work._ Crowley slinked his way over to the driver’s door. “Was that one of ours or one of yours?” He remained as casual as possible, pointedly ignoring the traffic warden. 

Aziraphale followed and stopped next to the passenger door and replied more conversationally, “Can’t recall.” Then his face lit up. “We had crepes.” 

Willing himself to not show any of the relief he felt, Crowley opened his door and settled behind the wheel and watched Aziraphale slide in next to him. Good. Now it was time to carefully reel the angel in. Remembering their conversation back in 1967, Crowley knew exactly where to go. With the parking boot vanished, he started the Bentley and was amazed to see the traffic warden’s ticket device spontaneously erupt into sparks as they pulled away with a squeal of tires. 

"I'm pretty certain I didn't mean to do that," he said. 

Aziraphale blushed, hands clasped primly in his lap. "That was me," he said. 

Times like this, Crowley loved the angel more than anything. 

There were many things that Crowley had learned about Aziraphale over their thousands of years of shared history. One of those things was how seriously the angel takes the enjoyment of food. During a formal meal, conversation was limited to a minimum, and should mostly revolve around food itself. If they were merely sharing tea, a snack, dessert, drinks, that was different. They could talk about anything in between bites of food. 

But a formal, multi-course lunch? Crowley knew to leave him to it. As one who didn’t find the same pleasure in eating, he consumed the meal as quickly as manners (and the angel’s temperament) would allow. By the time Aziraphale had moved to dessert, Crowley was anxiously bouncing a knee. 

He normally enjoyed watching the angel eat, and he still was, but there were many things to discuss and he didn’t want either of them to be sober while they did it. Finally, Aziraphale finished his dessert and asked what he was in the mood for now. Tapping his coffee spoon on the edge of a delicate china cup making it ring, Crowley declared, “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol,” with enthusiasm.

The way back to Aziraphale’s neighborhood in Soho was short, and Crowley decided to park around the corner from the shop, gauge the angel’s temperament during their walk to the shop’s front door. Also looking forward to a few drinks, Aziraphale mentioned a particular favorite, Chateauneuf du Pape, that he saved for special occasions. And he considered Crowley such an occasion. 

Not to be distracted, Crowley once again brought up the lack of wine in Heaven. Or alcohol in general. But, as ever, Aziraphale reminded him of their roles to play in all of this. Before inviting him in, of course. 

Six hours and several bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape later, they were both well into their cups. Well, to be fair, Crowley had made sure to maintain a certain level. Too drunk, he was likely to either lose track of the conversation, or fall asleep on the angel’s couch. He’d kept their conversation topical for the most part, what they’d been doing over the past few years, odd tidbits of human news. Although he made sure to remind the angel of the good things they'd miss after the war. 

He also had trouble sitting still, looking directly at Aziraphale for too long. If there was a representation of everything Crowley had to lose, it was the angel. If Hell won, no more Aziraphale. If Heaven won, no more Crowley.

They'd been talking about animals in general, Crowley leaning against a pillar and pouring the last of his current bottle into a wine glass, when the conversation shifted. He knew it was time when Aziraphale slurringly asked him what was his point. 

Crowley sat down, removed his sunglasses, and started with the sea creatures. Why would God want to destroy the animals of Earth when they had no say in the whole manner? Of course he didn’t say it outright. The angel would have to reach that on his own. There was a bit of a stumble when Aziraphale puckered his lips as Crowley tried to say ‘bouillabaisse’ and ugh, what gave him the right to be so adorable and kissable when the world was at stake! He had to get up again and pace. Next, he started in on the horrors of eternity with no Earthly pleasures. Except, of course, for _The Sound of Music_. If you could consider that a pleasure.

It was no surprise when Aziraphale finally admitted he didn’t like the divine plan either. But of course, he couldn’t disobey orders. Now was the time to explain Crowley’s plot. Well, after they sobered up. 

They took a moment to get the taste of stale wine out of their mouths, and Crowley leaned against a bookcase waiting for the angel to make the next move. And as soon as he mentioned the divine plan, Crowley countered with thwarting diabolical plans. After all, the Antichrist is the biggest Diabolical Plan ever, right? Crowley was so intent on convincing Aziraphale, he didn’t notice his old snake-like traits coming out, his uncovered eyes unblinking, body swaying side to side in a hypnotic motion. All he could do was lay down his cards and hope Aziraphale finally agreed to help.

“The Antichrist has been born. But it’s the upbringing that’s important. The influences. The evil influences, that’s all gonna be me. It’d be too bad if someone made sure that I failed.”

There it was. He could see when Aziraphale realized he was giving an excuse to help. It was what their six thousand year old relationship had hinged on all this time: finding ways around the rules between both sides. Because even though they were trapped by their roles and the expectations of either side, they really weren’t all that different.

It took Crowley a moment to register that Aziraphale was reaching across the space between them to shake on it. They’ve had very little physical contact in decades. But then Crowley remembered. There was always the physical sealing of the deal between them. The kiss that had been the seal on their Arrangement almost two thousand years ago flashed through his mind before he reached to shake Aziraphale’s hand. It was no more than a press of palms and one shake, but Crowley was almost giddy.

“We’d be godfathers, sort of.” Crowley made a gesture with both hands. “Overseeing his upbringing.”

This was his whole plan that had hinged on Aziraphale’s agreement. The reversal of the Arrangement, willingly cancelling out their influence. To save the world. 

“Godfathers. Well I’ll be damned!” Aziraphale beamed at him, making his heart flutter. 

That’s his excuse for what happened next, for the saucy wink and Crowley saying, “It’s not that bad when you get used to it.” 

The smile disappeared from Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley spent the next hour convincing him it was a joke, that he wasn’t damned, and here, have some more wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironing out the kinks in Dowling Era, it might be two separate chapters, I'm still not sure yet. Either way, posting resumes next week.


	12. And Antichrist Makes Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Nanny and a Gardener during the Dowling Era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pronouns for Crowley/Nanny Ashtoreth shift around depending on pretty much my whim.  
> Mostly, though, I use ‘her’ for Nanny Ash. And when they're in-character, I use their respective names.  
> Timeline: I borrowed heavily from the book for their timeline, because it made more sense to me.

You and me  
We're in this together now  
None of them can stop us now  
We will make it through somehow

_We’re In This Together - Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

It took a week for the solution of how to insinuate themselves into the Dowling household to make itself known. Almost immediately after the American Diplomat had returned home, an advert for a nanny position appeared in Britain's longest-running weekly women's magazine, _The Lady._

Crowley knew the position was perfect for him; he'd seen Mary Poppins once, after all. Aziraphale tried to argue with him about it, but Crowley put his foot down. This was his plan and he would be the one to make sure it went the way he wanted— the way it _needed_ to. The angel wasn't entirely convinced. After all, the recently vacated gardener spot seemed to particularly suit Crowley’s interests.

"We could flip for it," Crowley said, pulling out an ancient coin. 

"As if you wouldn't cheat," huffed Aziraphale. He knew all those coin tosses over the years went the way Crowley wanted them. "Fine. But we both need to influence the boy."

"I'll make sure the boy visits the garden regularly." Crowley was already planning his costume. “Besides, I’ll need to make sure you don’t ruin the plants.”

On hiring day, Aziraphale had talked him out of something dramatic to divert the competition, so Crowley settled on a public transport worker's strike, combined with some roadworks diverting traffic. The result was he was the first and only applicant to arrive for the nanny interview. 

Dressed in dark grey tweed and hair done with finger waves, Crowley, announcing him— er, _her_ self as Nanny Ashtoreth, met Warlock Dowling for the second time. During a tour of the estate, Crowley glanced out a window to see Aziraphale in that ridiculous Brother Francis getup being led across the grounds. Good. Their gardens were in a sorry state. 

Aziraphale got a bit more into the role than Crowley had expected with his disguise, having changed his facial features. It was all he could do to avoid laughing when the angel revealed his gardener outfit, transformed teeth, and exaggerated West Country accent. 

Crowley immersed himself into his role as nanny, having discovered that the role would be a bit more taxing than previously imagined. Mary Poppins hadn't dealt with a newborn, after all. 

Both head offices, upstairs and downstairs, approved their plans to influence the child, although neither office was informed the other side was also working on the project. Both angel and demon were given leniency with their miracles, but with strict warnings to not make it obvious. Couldn't risk alerting the opposition, after all. 

While Nanny Ashtoreth was supposed to be swaying the child toward evil, she did have a deal with Aziraphale’s part of the plan, so she arranged for plenty of strolls through the gardens, baby Warlock safe in a pram. There, she and Brother Francis would think of ways to cancel out each other's influence, while still making reports look proper. Luckily they'd had plenty of practice fudging reports, even though circumstances had been different until now. 

As the weather grew colder and winter set in, Aziraphale spent less time at the Ambassador’s estate and Crowley felt trapped indoors. Nanny Ashtoreth was stuck minding the Antichrist as a useless, eating, pooping, spitting, wriggling creature. She couldn’t even nap for fear the child would suffocate himself in his sleep.

Thankfully, for Christmas, the Dowlings decided to spend the week in the States, and gave Nanny Ashtoreth time off. Unfortunately, it also meant time to report directly Downstairs and explain in excessive detail the reasons for certain choices. 

Why use disposable nappies?38

Why did the Adversary receive immunisation shots?39

Had he killed anything yet?40

They were also concerned about an “excessive use of magic” but after Crowley explained what could be found in a baby’s nappies and how often they needed changing, he was allowed the use.

Hours later, finally exiting the portal to Hell, Crowley needed a break. So he went to see his angel. They weren’t confident enough to meet at the bookshop, so they met at a pre-arranged location. This time they met at The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. 

38: This one had also irritated Aziraphale, as he felt cloth would be better for everyone involved, and Crowley had snapped in irritation that _he_ should try changing soiled nappies up to a dozen times a day and see what he found easier to deal with. As for Downstairs, he combined his answer with #39:

39: Crowley had been pleased that the Dowlings weren’t anti-vaxxers, and had ensured Warlock got all his immunisations on time. Last thing he wanted was even more inconvenience with a sick child. He’d explained it to Downstairs thus: Pestilence was retired and Pollution had taken their place. The sheer number of soiled, non-biodegradable nappies going into landfills should more than make up for the immunisations.

40: Crowley had spent more time than he ought trying to explain to the denizens of Hell that an infant that couldn’t yet hold up his own head shouldn’t be killing anything (other than Nanny Ashtoreth’s ability to sleep).

* * * * *

Aziraphale arrived at The National Gallery and debated having a quick look around versus going straight for their designated meeting spot. On one hand, Crowley hated to be kept waiting, but on the other, Aziraphale knew they’d just changed out the displays in the Wohl Rooms. Plus, the Gallery was decorated for Christmas. Perhaps he’d just peek and see if Crowley was there, and if not take a quick tour.

Much later than intended, Aziraphale made his way back to their meeting place just as Crowley was sitting down on one of the leather couches offered in the room’s center. As he sat down next to the demon, Aziraphale said, “How are you, dear boy?”

Crowley gave a weary sigh and sank deeper into the leather. “In need of a moment or five.” 

Content to sit quietly next to Crowley, Aziraphale placed his hands in his lap and perused the paintings of bucolic English countryside in front of them. He’d not expected the in-person report to be so easy, or to have been concluded so quickly. They hadn’t even questioned him about the extra miracles to keep the garden green. But they did seem pleased. So there was that at least. 

Glancing at Crowley, Aziraphale began to fidget. His report had taken much more time. Were they displeased? Had they discovered their ruse? Before he got himself worked up too much, Crowley nudged him with his knee, getting his attention. 

“What’s the matter, can’t wait a few minutes before we decide what to eat?”

Aziraphale gave a frowning little pout. While a little crass, he knew Crowley had intended the comment as a diversion. He was always thoughtful like that. “Well, now that you mention it…” He shifted to face Crowley more directly. “Would you prefer the dining room or the cafe?”

Crowley cocked his head to one side. “You’re the one who will be picky about what they’re serving.”

He had a point. The dining rooms over on the Sainsbury wing did have more of an elegant aesthetic. But the cafe was closer to where they were now, and served a lovely afternoon tea. Perhaps they could request to be seated where it didn’t look like a hospital dining hall. Those pink chairs were atrocious. 

Aziraphale wanted to try the Christmas menu, especially after smelling an order of Beef Wellington pass by, but this was business and he never discussed business over a full lunch. Perhaps he could come by another day.

As soon as their first pot of tea arrived, a fragrant Chinese Jin Hou black tea, Aziraphale filled in Crowley on his short visit Upstairs. “They didn’t seem very interested,” he complained. 

Crowley scoffed while adding milk to his cup. “They realize not to expect much out of a newborn. Which I would have preferred to the grilling I received from Downstairs.”

Aziraphale ate while Crowley talked. Sandwiches with smoked salmon, cucumber, egg and cress. Tiny muffins, tartlets with sweet seasonal fruits, profiteroles, macarons, an assortment of petits fours. And of course, scones with jam and clotted cream. It was all delightful, and even Crowley enjoyed himself, although he spent more of his attention on the champagne than the food. 

It was nice for them to spend time together like this. Of course, they were often in close proximity at the Ambassador’s estate, but they had to play their roles. Here they could be themselves and without the pressure of a child to look after, Crowley was more relaxed. 

While Aziraphale was finishing his last scone, a neighboring table received an order of baked brie with honey and almond. He couldn’t help but gaze longingly after the warm, creamy cheese as he caught a whiff of the aroma. Crowley caught him looking and scoffed. “Still hungry, angel?”

“Nothing wrong with appreciating good food.” Aziraphale straightened himself in his seat, leaving one bite of crumbling scone on his plate as he pushed it away. He hid a pout behind a cup with the last of his tea.

“Oh come on. I didn’t mean it like that,” Crowley groaned. He leaned back on his chair and sighed. “Tell you what. We’ll come back for the full course on Boxing Day. My treat.” 

Immediately, Aziraphale’s mood lifted. “Oh really?” He beamed. “I was planning on coming back on my own, but a meal is always better with good company.”

“Shut up before I change my mind.” Crowley might have tried to look gruff, but after all this time, Aziraphale liked to think he could detect a hint of amusement hiding underneath it all.

* * * * *

After the new year things went back to as normal as one could expect while raising the Antichrist. Baby Warlock kept meeting all of his development milestones like any normal child and as winter turned to spring, Aziraphale as Brother Francis started considering the annuals for the garden. With the help of Crowley, of course.

As Warlock grew, Crowley became obsessed with parenting blogs. Nanny Ashtoreth presented a stern and firm countenance, but Crowley kept worrying about abnormalities. Regardless, Warlock kept growing perfectly average. Aziraphale kept reassuring the demon it was because their influences were in balance. 

While the Dowlings were content with their child’s nanny and the house’s gardener, the staff were another manner. But they knew better than to do more than whisper among themselves. Once the nanny had overheard one of the maids talking about the gardener’s appearance, something about being able to eat corn on the cob through a picket fence. The woman had suddenly found herself with a family emergency and needing to take indefinite leave. Another time, while the ambassador was taking tea on the patio, the gardener had overheard an assistant make a remark about the nanny’s strictness toward Warlock. Soon after that same assistant was reassigned to another ambassador in a country with a less temperate climate. So yes, there were rumors among house staff and government employees alike. But they kept them very quiet and always out of earshot of the two in question.

One Christmas, thanks to the influence of Brother Francis, young Master Warlock decided that everyone on staff should receive gifts for Christmas. Nanny Ashtoreth tried to turn it into a White Elephant type of affair, but common sense won out for Secret Santas. Nanny Ashtoreth was as unsurprised to pull Brother Francis’s name out of the hat as Brother Francis was to pull Nanny Ashtoreth’s. 

On Christmas Eve, the staff gathered for their annual dinner. It was one of the few times everybody got together without their employers. There was roast turkey, wine, and Christmas crackers. After dessert they opened presents, many tipsy and wearing their paper crowns. 

Brother Francis, blue crown perched on his head, received a gift wrapped in red paper with silver snowflakes. Inside a box from Amazon, nestled in protective foam, was a white mug. As he lifted it out, he admired the white wings that made up the handle. “This will be good for hot cocoa on cold winter nights.” He grinned toothily across the table at Nanny Ashtoreth who was pointedly avoiding eye contact. 

Nanny Ashtoreth was not wearing the paper crown that had come in her cracker. She had consumed large amounts of wine during dinner as a way to avoid conversation. Not that many tried more than a cursory greeting. In spite of the wine, she was stone cold sober as she ripped through folds of gold wrapping paper with white angels. Inside was a wooden box, the brand name of a very expensive scotch engraved on the front. Behind her dark glasses her eyes widened as she glanced up at the angel who was pouring wine for his neighbor, then carefully folded the torn paper over the box and primly placed it on the table. “Acceptable,” she said with an unaffected tone before reaching for her coffee. 

* * * * *

Warlock grew healthy under their care, albeit sometimes confused by the constantly contradictory life lessons. He could be kind, giving his last biscuit to a playmate; yet cruel, using his words to cause another child to cry. When he turned five, they knew he would be starting school in September. Nanny Ashtoreth encouraged him to reign his superiority over the other children, while Brother Francis urged kindness as the way to make friends.

Warlock’s time at school allowed both angel and demon more free time, and they often discussed the future. Warlock would need his nanny less as the years progressed, and eventually Crowley would need to find a new role. They didn’t need to worry about it now. The child was only five, after all. But they still discussed their options. 

Another summer shifted to autumn then winter, and early December was crisp, even though the latter half of the month didn’t understand it was supposed to be winter. As Christmas drew nearer, Brother Francis could be found wandering the staff kitchens sipping hot tea or cocoa and tasting whatever baked goods were to be had. 

The week before Christmas, Nanny Ashtoreth led Warlock to the staff kitchens for a snack to find Brother Francis perched at a table enjoying his tea. There was some shuffling of staff trying to stay out of the nanny’s way, and Brother Francis helped Warlock choose what he’d like to eat. At some point they were standing next to each other, with the child giggling and pointing above their heads. They both looked up to see, hanging from a wooden beam and tied with red ribbon, a sprig of mistletoe. It was some that Brother Francis had harvested himself from a tree on the property, to be used in household decoration. 

Francis felt his cheeks warm as Warlock said they had to kiss. Ashtoreth stood ramrod straight and held herself still, mouth in a severe line. They haven’t kissed in centuries. Thinking it was best to just get it over with, Francis said, “Well, it is tradition after all.” 

“Yes,” Ashtoreth replied. But as Francis leaned in, she placed her hand on his chest, pushing him back. The demon obviously had a plan, so he let himself be led and hoped whatever she had in mind wasn’t too embarrassing. She seemed hesitant as she placed her hands on either side of his face, and he felt his cheeks warm further. They rarely touched, and the perfume she wore filled his senses. Underneath he could just make out the notes of smoky musk that was the demon’s own unique scent. 

Her eyebrows arched sharply over her ever-present sunglasses when one of the other staff snickered. Muttering about childish traditions, she leaned closer, tilting Francis’s head to press her lips to his forehead. He couldn’t stop the fluttering in his chest from that brief touch.

It wasn’t enough for Warlock. “But it was one-sided! Brother Francis needs to kiss you back now!”

There were more soft snickers and just for a brief moment, Ashtoreth broke character. There was color on her cheeks that was more than rouge, and her painted lips parted with a small gasp. It was nice to be reminded he wasn’t the only one affected by all of this. But Francis was merciful and placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning in for a quick, wet kiss on the cheek before turning away.

He had to go gather some more evergreens for decoration so he wished everyone good afternoon, grabbed his hat and left, heedless of the mauve kiss mark still on his forehead. Later, by the gardening shed, he would take a fine handkerchief and daub at the lipstick mark before carefully folding the cloth into a small square and saving it in an inner pocket with a secret smile. He may have grown used to hiding his love for a certain demon, but he could not deny its existence.

For the rest of the afternoon, Nanny Ashtoreth was distracted and let Warlock do pretty much whatever he liked. That suited Warlock just fine.

The next time Aziraphale and Crowley met outside of the Dowling residence, after the new year, at a concert hall where a symphonic orchestra was serenading the audience with Bach, neither one mentioned the mistletoe incident. They discussed whether Crowley should embellish his reports about the child’s behavior. Other than hiding the influence of the other, it wasn’t good to push the envelope too much, so they let it be. 

Come Warlock’s sixth birthday, they decided it would soon be time to end their performances as Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis. Crowley was still avoiding the subject, having grown attached to the boy from all the time posing as his nanny. They waited until Warlock was in school, then Ashtoreth resigned abruptly and left without telling the boy goodbye. Brother Francis also resigned the same day.

A week later, Warlock found himself with two tutors to help him with his studies. Mr. Harrison had short, red hair that was always stylishly upright as if it were afraid of his forehead. His trousers were scandalously tight. He tried to teach Warlock how to make rabble-rousing political speeches to sway the hearts and minds of multitudes. 

Mr. Cortese had very fair hair that sat upon his head like a cloud, and he always wore a meticulously clean cream-colored jacket. He tried to teach Warlock about free will, self-denial, and Doing unto Others as You Would Wish Them to Do to You.

As such, the lives of Crowley and Aziraphale passed, with more time to themselves for these years than they had the previous five. Warlock grew like a normal boy, played like a normal boy, and complained about his lessons like a normal boy. Too normal in Crowley’s opinion. But he allowed Aziraphale to soothe his worries each time he brought it up, just as he assuaged the angel’s fears that they would fail.

He also avoided thinking about what would happen if they didn’t succeed in this endeavor. Or if they got caught. Aziraphale reported that Heaven was oddly aloof to the whole thing and were worryingly sure he would fail. They wanted the war. So did Hell, but they kept waiting for the boy to show some kind of demonic traits. Crowley had to skirt the issue whenever he had to report directly downstairs, where he had to bend the truth about the boy to cover up his utter normalcy.

The time was drawing nearer to Warlock’s eleventh birthday. Crowley had been briefed on what was to come, including a hellhound which was to be given to the boy which would awaken his powers. He was given strict orders to observe the event to ensure it all went smoothly. 

A few days before Warlock’s birthday, Crowley asked to meet Aziraphale at the Crystal Palace Dinosaur Park. He wanted one more chance to observe the boy and spend time with Aziraphale before everything went down, maybe make a contingency plan. 

Mrs. Dowling had arranged to spend some time with her son at the park, and Crowley made sure both he and Aziraphale arrived ahead of time and found an out of the way bench where they could observe and converse privately. They could hear Warlock complain from their vantage point. Aziraphale mentioned they’d done all the could.

When Crowley brought up the hellhound arriving on Wednesday, at the oddly specific time of three p.m. Aziraphale felt his heart sink. Nobody had mentioned anything like that. And he felt it was something that would be odd for Crowley to not mention. Especially something that would draw attention. His casual attitude towards the whole thing unnerved the angel. Once again Azirapahale voiced his doubts.

“What if he does name it?”

That started a discussion that took a much darker path. Crowley actually suggested killing the boy! For Aziraphale to do the deed! He couldn’t! But Crowley kept making very good points. “One life against the universe.” 

Crowley stared intently at him through his darkened lenses. He could feel it, even if he couldn’t look back at the demon. This had to be a temptation to do evil. Perhaps there was another way. He managed to look back at Crowley when he suggested trying to stop the dog if they were present at the party. 

Oh.

He had the perfect cover for it, too. He was a little rusty, but he had learned magic tricks from John Maskelyne a century and a half ago. Crowley acted like a wet blanket at the prospect, but the idea of performing his old magic tricks before an enraptured crowd of children appealed to Aziraphale. Oh, this would be fun. Regardless of Crowley’s mocking. He’d just have to dig up his old magician’s coat and hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snuck in another kiss there, I couldn't resist.  
> Had the hardest time deciding where to cut this chapter off, but figured right before Warlock's birthday was as good a place as any.
> 
> Missing from this chapter: The full fictitious Christmas menu from The National Gallery that I had decided upon, but didn't use. Along with the baked brie and beef wellington (with truffle duxelle), there were roast vegetables and brandied Christmas pudding.


	13. Road Trip For Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they try to find their missing Antichrist and pay a visit to Tadfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barely proofread, so pardon any glaring mistakes.  
> Also a reminder it's not brit-picked. While I know to use flat and lorry, I use American spellings for things that might should have more u's in them.  
> Enjoy more tiny bits of script and book inserts, one slightly out of place to where it fit better with my narrative.
> 
> Warning for an angsty dream sequence.
> 
> As usual, let me know if I need to add a tag for anything.  
> Love yas!

Everyday, it's a gettin' closer,  
Goin' faster than a roller coaster

_Everyday - Buddy Holly_

* * *

As Aziraphale dragged out his old magic accoutrements and practiced his act for the party, he couldn’t help but worry. Really, what was he to do against a hellhound? He was just one angel after all. It also worried him that he couldn’t ask Heaven for assistance. They wanted this. 

There were a few times in Aziraphale’s time on Earth that had him close to doubting. But in spite of reservations, he’d always believed in the Great Plan. Now however, with it possibly down to just a few days left of humanity as he knew its survival, it was harder to push aside those seeds of doubt. He blamed it on Crowley's influence as he aired out his old magician’s coat and hat. Stopping the dog was his self-assigned duty after all.

The afternoon of Warlock’s eleventh birthday was a disaster. Aziraphale was not held in awed wonder by the group of assembled children. Instead, they mocked his tricks, called out the secrets behind them. In exasperation Aziraphale glanced to Crowley who was counting down the seconds on his watch. Right. Just a little longer. 

The children wanted real magic, well he could split the difference. A mishap with an overly large lacy handkerchief, a secret service sidearm, and a bowl of trifle ended in a food fight, which wasn’t what Aziraphale had planned. After a clump of cream cake hit his face and splattered his coat, he determined it best to retreat and follow Crowley, who had managed to remain unscathed, to the Bentley. He really was fetching in the close-fitting, white caterer’s jacket. Perhaps he could be convinced to lighten up his wardrobe choices. 

Out by the car, Aziraphale remembered the white dove up his sleeve and had to perform a small miracle to revive it, before sending it on its way. 

The hellhound was late, but before they could discuss the matter further in the car, Crowley was conversing with a denizen of Hell via his car radio. While Crowley outright lied about the beast’s presence, Aziraphale glanced around just in case. But it never materialized.

They were in trouble.

“No dog.” 

“No dog.”

"Wrong boy."

Crowley took a deep breath. "Wrong boy."

They looked at each other. This was not good, not good at all. Grimly, Crowley closed his door and placed his hands on the wheel, not yet starting the engine. Time passed uncomfortably and Aziraphale didn’t know how to break the silence. Finally Crowley waved a hand at him. “Clean that cream cake off your jacket before it gets smeared all over my car.”

Ah, there was the attitude he was used to. Aziraphale wished away the glop off his clothing and face and placed his hands in his lap as Crowley put the car in motion. The drive to Soho was quiet, no music and no conversation. Both were deep in their own thoughts. 

Aziraphale wondered how it could have all gone wrong. Part of him hoped the beast couldn’t locate the boy and went back home.

Crowley’s mind was partially occupied with broken screaming interspersed with creative swears.

Back in the bookshop, Aziraphale carefully hung up his jacket and Crowley miracled himself back into his usual dark ensemble. Wordlessly, Crowley collapsed into a chair in the back room as Aziraphale gathered cut crystal tumblers and a decanter of good Scotch. 

He poured while Crowley complained and he couldn’t resist pointing out the demon had done it to himself. When Crowley “smelled” or felt or whatever it was that signaled the dog finding the right boy, Aziraphale’s stomach sunk. The past eleven years were all for naught. _Welcome to the end times._ He glanced at the drink in his glass, looked at Crowley who met his gaze; then he downed the contents in one gulp. Ooh, that was bracing. 

Aziraphale fully expected Crowley to want to linger at the shop and complain while getting drunk, had been counting on it actually, but after only two glasses, he wiped a shaking hand across his face and excused himself. Putting on a good face, Aziraphale ushered him to the door and wished him well on his way home. Crowley didn’t even fling back a sarcastic remark, he just got into his car and drove away. With a sigh Aziraphale locked the door, shuttered the windows, and proceeded to polish off the rest of the decanter himself.

* * *

Since the birthday party, Crowley had been replaying in his head the events of that night eleven years ago. How did it all go wrong? He’d accepted the baby in the basket, brought it to its destination safely, and handed it off all as instructed. There was no reason to think the child had gone to anyone else except the Americans, so of course that’s the one he and Aziraphale have watched over this whole time. 

Back at his flat, Crowley couldn’t muster the energy to talk to his plants. Instead, he faceplanted into bed and considered staying there until armageddon came and went. They were so fucked.

Even unconscious, his thoughts haunted him. Hastur and Ligur giving him the basket. Almost crashing into a truck because of Hell downloading instructions. The nuns. The call to Aziraphale. Desperately convincing his angel to help prevent the apocalypse.

Then, he was standing on a rocky waste, dark clouds overhead and smoke rising from craters. His clothes were in tatters and his hands held a spear, darkened with gore. In front of him stood Aziraphale, pristine in his vintage suit, a flaming sword in his grip. It wasn’t the one from Eden, this one was larger and glowed with blue flame. Holy flame that would immolate whatever it touched. 

The angel’s eyes weren’t cheerful, instead they were focused on him, his smile replaced with stony hatred. Pointing the sword at Crowley, he said, “I will defeat you, infernal creature.”

Aziraphale advanced and Crowley raised the spear in defense. “Angel, please. You don’t have to do this. It’s me.”

Aziraphale swung his sword. “Of course we have to do this. I am an angel and you are a demon. We’re hereditary enemies.”

Crowley parried the blow with the spear. It sizzled and he knew he couldn’t block many more. “But we’re friends, remember?”

Stopping, Aziraphale stared him down. “Friends?” He swung his sword. “We are not friends.” Another swing. “We have nothing in common.” 

Crowley blocked and parried, but with the last blow the spear cracked under the strain. He dropped the broken pieces and fell to his knees. “Aziraphale, please.” His heart was breaking. There was no emotion behind Aziraphale’s eyes as he raised his sword. 

“Get thee behind me, foul fiend.” The blue flame swung in an arc, with Crowley as its destination.

Crowley crashed to the floor of his bedroom in a tangle of dark silk sheets. Bright sunlight was seeping around the edges of his blackout curtains and he banged his head on the floor, letting out a breath. Just a dream. A very, very bad dream. He shook the lingering image of Aziraphale’s emotionless face and disentangled himself from the sheets. Might as well get on with the day; only a couple of them left now, after all.

If there was ever a time to take a hot shower, it was now. The bathroom in Crowley’s flat was rarely used. Usually, he preferred to just miracle himself clean and into his clothes. But running hot water was a luxury, and he enjoyed the indulgence now and again. The grey, angular aesthetic of the rest of the flat continued there, with the addition of marble countertops and glass-walled enclosures. Shower jets lined two walls, with one featuring a rainfall style showerhead, the other with a waterfall fixture. 

A push of a button and near-scalding water started filling the room with steam. Crowley snapped away his clothes and stood facing a floor-length mirror, observing his bony angles and slim frame. One thing that demons had trouble with was cleanliness. Hell was dark and damp, and they all carried the ash of their falling on their skin. Crowley was always bothered by the foul odors, but he’d given up trying to remove the ashen sheen from his skin millennia ago. As the mirror fogged over, he released his wings, flexing them to get the steam into the nooks and crannies. If he managed to survive armageddon, he’d give them a good grooming. But not today. He tucked them away and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water clear his mind for a while.41

Eventually Crowley couldn’t keep the intrusive thoughts at bay anymore, so he shut off the water, dried off, and got dressed. Right. Time to do… something. He strolled into the lounge and thought about calling Aziraphale. Even got as far as picking up the phone. But his dream still haunted him, so he set it back in its cradle with a grimace and turned on the television instead. 

It was early enough that a morning show was still on. Even then, it was interrupted by Hastur and Ligur. Blah blah, plans for Megiddo, four horsemen, Fallen solidarity, whatever. After he brushed them off, he wallowed in his failures yet again. So much for that hot shower. Hang around the wrong people, find yourself as a denizen of Hell. Try to do a nice, easy, straightforward job, lose the antichrist. Right. 

Time to try a different form of venting. He levered himself out of his chair and went to go care for his plants. Well, one could call what he did as more a form of self-psychotherapy. He treated the plants like he felt he had been treated by both God and Hell. Threats. Punishments for the slightest infraction. As far as his plants knew, anyway. He rarely _actually_ sent a plant down the garbage disposal. They usually found themselves in new homes. But it would ruin the effect if they knew that. They wouldn’t be the best-behaved plants in all of London if they weren’t terrified of him.

41: If one were to observe him during this time, he would appear to be in a depressive sulk.

* * *

Meanwhile, in Soho, Aziraphale was having a trying morning of his own. Instead of miracling himself sober, he’d sort of… napped it off. Now, Aziraphale doesn’t really _sleep_ per se. But sometimes, when things were slow, or he found himself a bit into his cups, he would sort of… meditate. With his eyes closed. It was usually rather refreshing, although after all that Scotch from last night, he had to miracle away a bit of a headache.

The shop across the street had delightful pastries, so after a quick trip and some very strong tea, Aziraphale opened his bookshop for the day. Then Gabriel appeared with Sandalphon in tow to remind him that the apocalypse was proceeding as planned. Yes. Well. He was reminded just what was at stake, as both he and Crowley have lied, repeatedly, to their superiors.

And then there was this rude telephone call from someone wanting the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. He didn’t know how many times he’s had to explain that no copies existed, but the response from the person on the other line was the rudest yet. 

It did get him thinking about their current predicament and how to try to salvage everything. What did he know? Well, Crowley hadn’t given him many details, but he did know that night, eleven years ago, he’d given the antichrist to someone. Whoever _that_ was had obviously bungled things up along the way, such was the fate of evil after all. Perhaps— The sound of the shop’s bell distracted him. Yes, another customer. He could continue that line of thought as soon as they were gone. 

The customer took their time and after he’d finally given enough indication he had no desire to actually sell them anything and they were on their way, Aziraphale locked the front door and called Crowley. And got that infernal ansaphone. Oh, he hoped Crowley was alright. Thankfully, he picked up as soon as Aziraphale mentioned having sort of an idea. 

“What.”

“Ah, hello. Um, when you did the baby swap eleven years ago, could something have gone wrong?” 

“What?” 

“Crowley, can you hear me? I said could something have gone wrong with the baby swap eleven years ago.”

“Stay right there, I’ll be over in five minutes.” Crowley promptly hung up.

Well. That was something. It took less than five minutes before Crowley was at his door. “What sort of idea do you have, angel?”

“What if we investigated the hospital where Warlock was born?”

Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed at Aziraphale. “Get in the car. Now.”

Warmth suffused Aziraphale’s very being. Crowley liked his idea! He closed up shop and soon they were zooming through the streets of London at incredibly unsafe speeds on their way to a small town outside Oxford. Aziraphale didn’t properly unclench until they were off the M40 and cruising at a more reasonable speed on a two-lane road. They'd managed to find a CD of Tchaikovsky that hadn’t been in the car long enough to be completely changed to Queen, although there were a few movements here and there that were decidedly not composed in the eighteenth century. 

They finally arrived at the building Crowley said had been the hospital eleven years ago, but something about it was off to Aziraphale. He couldn’t quite… OH. A wave of love. He tried explaining it to Crowley, but sometimes he forgot demons don’t feel the same thing as angels. They continued on, only to be shot with paintballs. This definitely wasn’t a hospital. 

And now his coat was ruined. Miracling it himself wouldn’t work, because then he would always remember the exact size and shape of it. Thankfully, he convinced Crowley to take care of it. He didn’t really mean to push Crowley to do small things for him, but it was so reassuring to know he cared. 

After a small discussion about the paint guns, they ventured deeper into Tadfield Manor. Crowley seemed to recognize the place, but as of yet they’d failed to find anyone who could tell them about the building’s history. 

Suddenly a woman came dashing out of a restroom complaining about someone from accounting getting her in the elbow. She asked who was winning, and Aziraphale noticed the demonic miracle when Crowley said, “You’re all going to lose.” Well, that, and the sounds of actual gunfire erupting from outside.

Surely he didn't… “Wh- what, what the Hell did you just do?”

Crowley’s amused face of mischief made an appearance as he started to saunter off. “ _Well,_ they wanted real guns, so I gave them what they wanted.”

Of all the stunts Crowley has pulled in his presence, this one stunned him. “There are people out there shooting at each other.”

“Well, it lends weight to their moral argument.”

Crowley kept talking about free will and the right to murder, and Aziraphale could not believe Crowley would actually go that far. To prove a point. He stopped in the middle of the hall, upset. “They’re murdering each other?”

Crowley’s smile dropped. “No, they aren't. No one's killing anyone. They're all having miraculous escapes. It wouldn't be any fun otherwise.”

Oh, what a relief. He knew Crowley couldn’t be that intentionally cruel. What he said next could be chalked up entirely to his relief causing him to voice more out loud than he ought. “You know, Crowley, I've always said that deep down, you really are quite a nice—”

In a flash, Crowley had grabbed Aziraphale’s lapels and pressed him bodily against the wall. He was hissing something violently, but all Aziraphale could focus on was their closeness. Crowley was no threat to him and all that power contained within his lean body pressing against him was distracting. He was suddenly reminded of that time in Rome when— 

Wait, Crowley’s gotten distracted. Turning his head toward whatever had gotten Crowley’s attention, Aziraphale saw a woman in a business suit coming their way. And she recognized Crowley, good. Although snapping her silent was a touch overboard. He said so and received a snarky response from the demon. They’d just see, wouldn’t they?

After straightening up where Crowley had rumpled his suit, Aziraphale approached the woman. “Um, ahem, look.” He was still flustered from Crowley’s touch. He smiled. “Hello.” He very nicely asked her if she had been a nun there eleven years ago. She was. He gave Crowley a smug look. “Luck of the Devil.” 

Crowley took over and asked her about the baby and the ambassador, but she didn’t know anything else about what had happened. As for the records, burned in a fire. Crowley hissed a name Aziraphale was pretty sure he’d heard complaints about before. Was there anything else she could remember?

“He had lovely little toesie-woesies.”

Aww, she seemed like a rather lovely lady, in spite of having been a Satanic nun who now ran a place where people ran around shooting each other with paint balls. Crowley was already turning to leave.

“Let's go.”

Aziraphale wanted to thank the woman for her time and information first. “You will wake, having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best.”

Impatiently, Crowley called “Oi,” and Aziraphale gave her one last smile, snapped, and turned to join him.

* * *

Crowley was trying his damndest to appear calm. Every-bloody-thing has been for naught. Armageddon was going to happen and unless they came up with an idea very very soon… His dream rose up in the back of his mind. No. Nonono. Hands in his pockets, he wandered outside to the sounds and sight of the police arresting the paintball people. Good thing he remembered to change their guns back. There would be some confusion, but no real physical harm done. He couldn’t afford to be called “nice” out in the open, but the disappointment that practically oozed out of Aziraphale was too much to bear.

Angel and demon had an ironic conversation about being able to find someone whose inherent qualities protected them from discovery while they casually walked, unnoticed by the swarming police, to the car.

The sun was setting and Crowley was in a Bad Mood. He didn’t bother slowing down along the two lane road, even while Aziraphale braced himself. Add to it the syrupy Queen ballad the car had insisted on playing, and things were just very, very bad. They had no way of finding the Antichrist. 

The car grew quiet and Crowley slowed down, watching the angel’s fingers loosen their grip on the door. He remembered the look on Aziraphale’s face in the hallway, not afraid of him at all when he pressed him against the wall. 

“I don’t suppose,” He swerved around a pothole. “Your people would consider giving me asylum?”

“I was just thinking of asking you the same thing,” Aziraphale replied before grasping at the door again as they overtook a lorry. 

Crowley didn’t have a good answer. The thought of Aziraphale trying to fit in with the other denizens of Hell made his stomach twist. They fell into a tense silence as the sky changed colors and grew darker. Aziraphale made an attempt to break that silence.

“Oh, remember what I mentioned earlier? There’s a very peculiar feeling to this whole area. I’m astonished you can’t feel it.”

Crowley remembered the angel blathering on about love. “I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary.” He tried to remain casual as _love_ was the last thing he wanted to discuss at the moment.

Aziraphale heaved great sighs as he spoke. “But it’s everywhere. All around here.” He paused, then continued excitedly. Love. Flashes of love.”

No. Absolutely not. “You’re being ridiculous. The last thing we need right now is—” There was a squeaking noise, then a THUMP, and a bicycle complete with rider was flying over the car as they screeched to a halt on the country lane. 

The Bentley’s engine idled as they processed what just happened.

“You hit someone.”

Crowley refused to assume fault. “I didn’t. Someone hit me.”

Aziraphale rushed out of the car to check on whoever’s bicycle just landed in the ditch and Crowley shut off the engine. Fine. They were both out of the car when Aziraphale lit up the area with a small miracle. The dazed woman in the ditch seemed confused, so Crowley extinguished it. Sometimes, the angel didn’t think about how things like that appeared to humans. While Aziraphale attended to her, Crowley un-did the damage to his Bentley. 

When Aziraphale was offering the woman a ride, Crowley absolutely refused. He did not want someone mucking about in his car and they really didn’t have the time for this. He tried to give an excuse, but the angel had the audacity to add a rack to the back of the Bentley. And it was TARTAN. They were definitely going to have to have a word about personal space. Fine, he’d play nice. Even though he sneered at Aziraphale as the dazed woman got into the back seat, leaves still stuck to her hair. Before getting back in, he silently promised the Bentley a deep, internal cleaning.

On the way back toward the village, the Bentley’s sense of humor spewed Queen’s “Bicycle Race” out of its speakers. The woman in the back held onto a slightly bent bread knife like she expected the worst from them. Eventually she took her eyes off them long enough to check on her bike. 

“Listen, my bike, it- it didn't have gears. I know my bike didn't have gears.” Crowley rolled his eyes. She continued. “Make a left.”

“Oh, Lord, heal this bike,” Crowley sing-songed under his breath. 

“I got carried away.” The angel was fretting now, good. 

Their passenger directed them to a cottage nestled in a bend of the road. “Oh, you can drop me off here.”

He made Aziraphale take care of the woman and her belongings. Unfortunately, the angel chose to point out the lack of gears on the “velocipede”. 

Crowley got out far enough to lean against the roof of the car. “Bicycle.” The woman glanced between them confusedly. She could blame the whole exchange on a concussion later. “Can we get on? Get in angel.”

With Aziraphale back in the car he sped off around the corner and away from this blasted village. As much as he wanted to admonish the angel for do-goodingness, he really didn’t want another lecture about the area being “full of love”. Maybe Aziraphale was just hungry. He’d packed some biscuits before they’d left, hadn’t he?

As they got closer to the M40 interchange, sure enough Aziraphale asked to stop for a bite to eat at a little diner he’d seen on the way in. It was just like every other little diner at interchanges all over. But, the more he thought about it, Crowley could do with a cup of strong coffee. 

Inside, they were greeted with the sights and smells of your typical greasy spoon. The dregs of dinner hour and some weary travelers minded their own business as they found a small booth that wasn’t too sticky. A portly woman with a stained pink apron came to take their order, and Aziraphale asked what kind of desserts were available. He chose cake, which showed up overly dry and under iced. At least the coffee was drinkable. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale cut up the more edible parts of the cake into tiny bites. Normally, he would focus on the angel enjoying his food, but tonight he zoned out in his own thoughts, staring without focus at the salt shaker shaped like a light bulb. 

Aziraphale was blathering on about something or another as usual, in between bites. There was something about finding a human, and Crowley forced himself to become more present. Hopefully Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. 

“What?”

Aziraphale kept talking, and Crowley finally caught on to the topic. He expected humans to be able to _sense_ the boy? Really?

“He's the Antichrist. He's got an automatic defense... thingy. Suspicion slides off him like…” He shook his head, trying to think. “Uh, whatever it is water slides off.”

“Got any better ideas?” Aziraphale was giving him a look. “A one. Single. Better idea?” 

If there was anyone who could eat with attitude, it was Aziraphale, who primly daubed the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin after eating another tiny bite of pink frosted cake.

Crowley loudly slurped his coffee in response.

Back on the M40 Aziraphale admitted he had human operatives. Oh. So did Crowley, actually. What a coincidence. Aziraphale asked if they should pool their resources, and the thought of Shadwell working with whoever Aziraphale had was laughable. But he was still stuck on how humans would find the boy anyway. Suspicion would still slide off of him like… 

“Ducks!” It’s been bothering him since the diner, and it was a relief to remember. “That’s what water slides off.”

Aziraphale was all prissy, but quiet after that exchange, all the way back to Soho. It gave him more time to think about Aziraphale. A study in paradox. So prim and proper, yet his bookshop was crammed full willy-nilly. A proper, kind angel, who wouldn’t blink twice as a man who had wronged him got carted off to the guillotine. So full of love. Yet continued his friendship with a demon. His brain still stuck in the past, thinking his wardrobe was stylish and that The Velvet Underground was bebop.

They arrived in front of the shop, and Crowley got out, leaning against the roof, and told him just what he thought about the angel calling it bebop. Aziraphale just gave him a look and prepared to retrieve his biscuit tin from the back seat, when he found a book. It definitely wasn’t his. And even if it were, he wouldn’t admit he read books to Aziraphale. And there was no use shaming him about his car getting hit by a mad American woman with a bicycle either. If Aziraphale wanted the book returned, he could do it; Crowley was in enough trouble.

Anyway, he was waiting to be invited inside. But that didn’t happen. Instead, whatever book he’d found was more interesting and had him stumbling all over himself to get away. He barely even responded when Crowley brought back up the subject of human operatives. What did ‘tickety boo’ even mean? 

“Well. That was a _thing._ ”

He’d leave the angel to his new book for the night and check back in with him tomorrow, and pretend that the lack of invite for a nightcap didn’t hurt his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the angsty dream sequence: I had to edit some bits out that were off in the timeline. I will hopefully get to use that bit later because it's prime angst territory.
> 
> Anyway, trying to write AROUND scenes is hard. Sorry of it got messy.


End file.
